Convicts
by sss979
Summary: None of them - least of all Face - ever thought they'd be thrown in jail for a mission they actually had orders for. WARNINGS: Wartime violence and soldierly roughness, some discussion of drugs and sex.  This one's pretty mild, folks.
1. Prologue

RATING: PG-13  
>SUMMARY: None of them - least of all Face - ever thought they'd be thrown in jail for a mission they actually had orders for.<p>

WARNINGS: Wartime violence and soldierly violence, some discussion of drugs and sex. This one's pretty mild, folks.

**For those of you following along, I thought I'd give a list of books to date in this series so that you can track down any you missed if you feel so inclined. I lost a lot of readers after Push Me; guess y'all don't like Hannibal stories too much but that's too bad 'cause I do! :-P Books in order so far are as follows: Scars of War, Nature of Trust, Push Me, The Last Word, Don't Say a Word, and now Convicts. Lest any of you should be worrying that this series will be abandoned as a WIP, I feel the need to let you know that ALL TWENTY BOOKS should be finished by the end of this month. We're finishing up the last few right now. Thanks to all who have been supportive thus far, and a special thanks to my cowriter, Tiggertoo, and to AprilDancer007, without whose help I would not have been able to keep this storyline straight!**

**PROLOGUE**

**December 1971**

The screaming in his head never stopped. Men, women, and children; Vietnamese and American. They lined up for execution. They bled. They died. The drugs made him numb. They made the shaking stop. They made the faces more obscure. He didn't feel fear when the drugs were working. He didn't feel pain. He didn't feel anything as he watched another set of eyes come and go.

Bang! And then he was dead. Bang! And there went another one.

_ "If we were still men, we'd weep…"_

He'd wept. He'd cried until his eyes were dry. Hours, days… he didn't know how long. It hadn't made him feel any better. Numb and cold, he stared at the wall, watching the colors swirl. "Captain Murdock?"

He closed his eyes, wishing the voices would go away. "Die," he pleaded weakly. "Dying already go!"

_ "But you need me alive…"_

"Captain, you have visitors." A hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and forced them to focus. Twenty-twenty vision. He couldn't see straight. His eyes burned and his head throbbed. Visitors. Doctors.

Why couldn't they all just die?

"Murdock?" Familiar voice.

"I'll be right outside if you need me."

"We'll be fine, thanks." Another familiar voice.

Instinct to scream. No strength to do so. He looked weakly toward the door. Every inch that he moved felt like a mile. So tired, so confused. What country was he even in? "Hey, Murdock."

Familiar people. He should know who they were, but he didn't. He trusted them. He didn't remember their names, but even through the haze of traumatized confusion, just seeing them standing there made him feel something way down deep inside, where the drugs and the voices and the guns and the bloody blur couldn't go. He felt safe.

Who were they?

Three figures, through the door and into the white-walled room. "Jesus, Murdock, what happened to you?"

Murdock closed his eyes and thought hard. But his mind was as blank as the walls around him. A hand on his shoulder made him flinch, but he didn't open his eyes to see who it was.

_ "I don't need to remind you what Top Secret means, do I, Lieutenant?"_

"Murdock, do you know who we are?"

_ "We've all lost people in this goddamn bloody war."_

"Nurse? Is there anyone we can talk to about his condition?"

"I'll see if I can find his doctor. He was here just a little bit ago. I think he's still around."

"When will they send him back to the States?"

_ "I'm not willing to lose the best goddamn pilot in Vietnam to a cesspool of liquor and self-pity. At least not without a fight."_

"We're trying to arrange it right now. He's on the list, but… his injuries aren't life threatening."

"I understand."

Eyes shut hard, Murdock began to rock slowly, singing under his breath. It wasn't a song – just words. Just words that came to mind in the hazy fog that he lived in.

"Hi. I'm Dr. Johnson."

"Colonel Hannibal Smith. This is Lieutenant Templeton Peck, Sergeant BA Baracus. We're friends of Murdock's."

Those names were so familiar. Did he know them?

Rocking… Rocking… Back and forth. Soft and warm and comforting. _"Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top…"_

"It's still too early for me to be able to tell you much. He's… definitely delusional. Given what you told us, the condition you found him in…"

"Is he gonna live?"

Murdock opened his eyes again, still rocking, and stared at the vaguely familiar face of a well-built black man.

"He'll live. His physical injuries are surprisingly minimal. Malnutrition and dehydration. Superficial wounds. But it's difficult to say, at this early stage, how well his mind will recover. It's just going to take time."

"Is there anything you can do for him?"

_ "Self-destruction is easy. I didn't need Vietnam to teach me how to do that."_

Familiar voice. Familiar words in his head.

"He's not in any pain, if that's what you're worried about. We've given him some sedatives to calm him down and they're helping. But he hasn't said anything coherent since he got here."

"Does he even hear us?"

"Well, yes. He can hear you. But it's not clear how much he understands right now."

The voices mixed and mingled and swirled. His head hurt. Too much listening, too much talking; he couldn't make sense of it. Voices talking to him, talking about him. And the screaming went on and on. He rubbed his hands together, one over the other, trying desperately to wash the blood off. He needed water to wash off the blood.

"No, don't do that." He stared blankly at the face of a woman. "Remember, if this comes out of your hand, I have to put it back in." She pointed to the tube that ran into the back of his hand. "And the doctor said if you pulled it out again, we were going to have to tie you down."

"How many times has he pulled it?"

"Just once. I don't think he did it on purpose. He just doesn't understand."

Voices. Too many voices. He curled up into a ball and lay down on his side, eyes open and staring. Bang! And another one died. _"I had a dog and his name was Blue…"_

"Wonder if he even remembers. If he remembers anything."

"Maybe it's better if he doesn't."

Bang!

_"Bet you five dollars he's a good dog too..."_

He rocked, hugging himself tightly. _"Sing!"_

He opened his eyes and stared at the wall, still rocking as the words whispered through his lips. So many voices, so many songs… "Sing louder!"

"Sing because you're free!"

"Because it's almost over…"

"Guys, listen."

_ "Old Blue died and he died so hard…"_

"What is it, Face?"

"Listen!"

"Shook the ground in my backyard…"

Murdock looked up and met the eyes of the man standing next to him, the man who was singing with him. He knew this song? Murdock didn't even know how _he _knew this song. Maybe it was a nursery rhyme that his mother had sung to him once, when he was little. Maybe.

"Dug his grave with a silver spade…"

"Lowered him down with links of chain…" Murdock's eyes drifted to the other two men, who were slowly coming closer, both singing under their breaths. "Every link, I did call his name…"

The three men exchanged glances and paused, as if waiting for him to start. He didn't know the right words, but he sang them anyways. Like a game he hadn't played since childhood, but still remembered the rules to, the names rolled off of his tongue without thought.

"Davis and Thomas, Garcia too… Hill, Nelson, Turner, Cazinski too…" They joined him after only two lines, and their voices echoed in the empty room. When the long list of names had ended, Murdock could swear he saw tears in all of their eyes, but he wasn't sure why.

"Hey, Blue, you're a good dog you… Hey Blue, I'm a-coming there too."

The silence that settled in the room was deafening. Even the whispers quieted. In the moment of clarity, he studied the face of the young blond who stood closest to him. "Face…?" he asked, unsure.

"Colonel Smith?"

The voice in the doorway abruptly cut off any attempt at a reply. "Who are you?"

Murdock watched. Until he saw the uniforms. Instantly, the screaming returned, and he put his head down, covering his ears. When the intruders spoke again, he barely even heard them. "Are you Colonel Hannibal Smith?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Then that means you're Lieutenant Peck and Sergeant Baracus?"

"Yeah, man. What's it to you?"

"You all are under arrest."

Murdock's head snapped up. Inexplicably, he felt a tidal wave of fear building on the horizon, threatening to destroy him.

"Arrest? What the hell for?"

"In violation of article 122, robbery, and article 108," the man paused for dramatic effect, "treason."

"Treason!"

Murdock's chest was tight. He couldn't breathe. As he watched the cuffs close over the men's wrists, he pulled himself to his feet, stumbling a little. "Wait," he managed between short gasps for breath. "Wait!"

They didn't wait. As the uniforms led them away, Murdock ripped the tube out of his hand and stumbled after them, out into the hallway. "Wait!"

The oldest of the four men looked back, over his shoulder. "It's okay, Murdock," he reassured. "Don't worry about us. We'll be just fine."

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't get air. His hands were shaking. As the men were led away, so too went all of the safety and comfort their presence had brought. He tried to follow them, tried to put one foot in front of the other. But hands on his arms held him back. With a panicked, bloodcurdling scream, he joined the voices in his head, gasping for air until he felt his body go limp and he slid into deep, silent blackness.


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

**Fort Bragg, December 1971**

"Colonel Smith?"

The man seated at the metal table – gray haired but perhaps prematurely – was young for his rank. He was not at all what Major Downing had been expecting. Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith was a living legend, but he looked just like every other man Downing had seen return from Vietnam. The same empty stare, the same unemotional coldness in his eyes. He didn't answer, but he did look up. They locked gazes; ice blue eyes met Downing's inquisition. Downing offered a polite smile.

"I'm Major Ryan Downing. I'm here to make sure you understand the charges that have been filed against you."

Colonel Hannibal Smith seemed neither intimidated, nor particularly interested in that statement. Lowering his gaze back to the table, he offered an offhanded, "Are you a lawyer?"

Something about his voice – the authority he carried in his presence alone – was intimidating. Downing cleared his throat. "No, I'm an investigative officer. I'm just here to make sure we have all the facts."

The colonel looked up at him again, and Downing suddenly felt as if he'd been transported back to those very first days of basic, face to face with drill sergeants who could neither be impressed nor appeased and were certainly unamused with his efforts in either case. The man looked at him as if he saw right into his soul. It made his skin crawl. They were the eyes of a dead man - haunted and unfeeling. The man had seen hell. There was no doubt about that.

"Do you have a cigar?"

Downing was startled by the question, and by the dead tone. "Uh, no sir. I'm afraid I don't smoke."

Smith nodded slowly, but didn't answer.

Clearing his throat, Downing took a seat across from him and opened the file folder on the table. "You are aware that you're being charged with robbery and treason." He glanced up, searching for a reaction, but there was none. "Those are pretty serious offenses."

Still no reaction. Smith's eyes were on his hands, folded calmly on the table in front of him, not fidgeting, not flinching.

"I'll be frankly honest with you," Downing continued. "Everyone wants to know if you'll be cooperating with this investigation or if you're going to try and stonewall us."

Smith nodded again, and was quiet for a long moment, as if considering his response. Then, slowly, he leaned forward on the table. "Let me make something very clear," he said calmly.

Downing was careful not to betray that cold chill that passed through him as Smith looked up and met his eyes. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but straighten a bit in his chair.

"In the past 72 hours, my team and I have been hauled out of an active war zone, flown across an ocean in chains, and thrown into the stockade of some god-forsaken stateside base without any satisfactory explanation as to what the hell is going on here. I haven't slept, I haven't eaten, and I haven't had a cigar. I'm not feeling very cooperative. So if you want anything out of me besides name, rank, and serial number, I will have a cigar in my hand in the next thirty seconds."

Downing stared. Then he stood, walked back to the door, and stepped outside. He could feel Smith's eyes on him as he left. He returned a moment later with a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches.

"Best I can do."

He set the offering on the table and Smith eyed it carefully. Finally, he reached calmly for the cigarettes, ceremoniously tapped one out and lit it, then sat back in the uncomfortable metal chair, staring across the table at Downing.

"Good conduct medal, Vietnam, Korea, silver star," Smith rattled off, reading the medals on Downing's Class As. Their gazes locked, but Smith remained emotionless. "And rear echelon all the way."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you've probably never seen a dead man, let alone had a friend die in your arms."

Downing shifted a bit uncomfortably. He'd done this sort of interrogation a hundred times before. But there was something about Smith's tone and his cold, hard stare that made Downing's skin crawl.

"We're not here to talk about me," he clarified. "We're here to talk about what happened in Hanoi."

Smith took a long, slow drag on the cigarette and tipped his head back, blowing the smoke into the air. "Where's the rest of my team?" he asked flatly.

"They're here."

"Why aren't they keeping us together?"

"That'd be a question for somebody higher up the chain of command than me."

"So why am I talking to you?"

Downing hesitated, then looked down at the file in front of him. Smith's eyes flickered to it, but he made no attempt to read it. His attention was instead on Downing. Predator and prey. Downing put his shoulders back and cleared his throat. It should be the other way around. Reminding himself that he was the one with the real authority here, he looked back up at the colonel.

"As I said, you're being charged with treason. And robbery."

Smith was unmoved by the statement.

"I understand that you and your team robbed the Bank of Hanoi. Is that right?"

Smith took another drag on his cigarette, eyes locked firmly on the man seated across from him. He didn't look away, didn't back down. He just watched.

After a long, unfriendly silence, Downing continued. "Your team was one of the best. Is that correct?"

Hannibal smiled faintly, knowingly, and took another drag off his cigarette. He held Downing's stare for a long moment, then glanced away, towards the barred window in the corner of the room. "I don't suppose I could get a cup of coffee? I'd feel much more cooperative with a cup of coffee."

**Vietnam, 1968**

"Let's go! Let's move! Everyone up and at 'em!"

Cruiser turned his head into his pillow to shield his eyes from the glaring light in the team room. "Are you fucking kidding me, Hannibal?"

"Ugh!" In the next bunk over, Ray "Boston" Brenner sounded even less pleased. "Get me a fucking IV with the coffee going straight into my arm."

"Let's go," Hannibal urged, tapping the bunks. "You're on this team, you're up and moving when I say you are. Five minutes. Outside. Move. Indigo, get your ass up."

A slurred, "Right, boss," was the only sound from the bunk across the room. Cruiser wasn't even aware he was moving – it was purely routine – until his foot hit the post of the bunks on the way to his locker. "Ah! Fuck! Jesus!"

"It is 0400 and we are officially _off _stand-down." Cruiser could hear the smile in Hannibal's voice. "Thought we'd start our next rotation with a quick jog around the camp."

Stumbling, hurt, and already in a fine mood, Cruiser forced his eyes to adjust to the light and glared at Hannibal. "You got a sick sense of humor, Colonel, you know that?"

Hannibal chuckled.

"Hey, wasn't that new guy supposed to be here for this run?" Boston mumbled sitting up on the edge of his bunk. He put his feet on the floor and rubbed his face.

"He's been held up in Da Nang," Hannibal answered. "I'm going to talk to General Westman this afternoon about getting him transferred."

"And signing off on our permanent reassignments," Cruiser reminded him.

"Yes."

Cruiser was careful not to let it show, but he knew he'd feel a hell of a lot better once those papers were filed. The last fucking thing he wanted was to go back to his former team. It was nothing personal, really; they were good soldiers. But they weren't like Hannibal. There was something about him that was different from all the rest. Two weeks with the guy and Cruiser was sold on his "fuck the world and take no prisoners" attitude. Even if, in the end, it would be the death of him. And, worse, even if it did mean wake up calls at 0400.

"How long before his hold up gets worked out?" Cruiser asked, flexing his toes. Didn't feel broken.

"We'll see when I talk to Westman."

"What's his name?" Boston asked.

"Templeton Peck."

Cruiser groaned. "Fucking kidding me?"

Hannibal raised a brow, a slight smirk on his face. "Problem, Sergeant?"

The look Cruiser returned spoke volumes. "What is he, some poor little rich kid too stupid to evade the draft or a fuckin' academy dropout?"

Boston laughed. "Says the man who dropped out of pre-med and did basic instead of OCS. Like an idiot."

Cruiser glared at him. "Fuck you."

"And he says it, incidentally, to the proud and aspiring West Point grad," Boston added with a grin.

"Fuck West Point, too." Cruiser looked up at Hannibal again. "Come on. Where'd you pick this guy up?"

If Hannibal was offended, he didn't show it. That was probably because unlike every other officer Cruiser had ever come into contact with – especially one who was a Colonel – the man had no sense of formalities when it came to field work and field living. It made working for and with him much cozier than most commanding officers were willing to allow. And it made Cruiser much more comfortable with the fact that he lived or died by this man's calls.

"You guys got three minutes to be dressed and outside," Hannibal said, ignoring the question. "I suggest you have that morning cigarette _while _you get your pants on because I'm not giving you time for it later. Indigo? Get up!"


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Fort Bragg, December 1971**

"As I understand it, your team's structure was a bit unusual."

Colonel Smith sipped his coffee, careful not to let it burn his mouth. "I thought you wanted to hear about Hanoi."

Downing tipped his head as he studied the colonel carefully. "I do. But I think that understanding the structure of your team is relevant to understanding what happened at Hanoi."

Smith shrugged. "What do you want to know, Major?" He gestured offhandedly to the open file folder in front of the man. "I'm sure you've seen all their service records, know them all by name. You'll be talking to most of them shortly. What is it you want from me?"

Downing shrugged slightly. "I want an overview. Your perspective."

"Heh." Smith sat back, relaxing and crossing one leg over the other. "My perspective? My team was made up of the most loyal and most ruthless sons of bitches in Vietnam. We lost fewer men per hour on the ground than any combat team in country that I'm aware of."

"How many men was that?"

"Eleven."

"Two Americans."

"Sergeant Joshua Rice and PFC Bill Tawney."

"Who died while you were… imprisoned."

The look that passed over Smith's eyes was so empty, so cold, the man looked like death himself. "Tawney died in a POW camp. His body was not recovered."

"Why not?"

Suddenly, Smith's tone was as icy as his stare. "Because he was buried in the ground and decaying by the time we managed to escape. Are you going somewhere with this?"

"How did your team manage to escape from the POW camp?"

"You've got the report. Read it."

"I want to hear it from you."

"What the hell difference does it make?"

"It says a lot about your team." Downing remained calm as he looked the defensive colonel in the eye. "When you got out of there, only one of your men went home. The other three stayed with you."

"Four stayed with me."  
>"Well, technically, one went home and then came back. Which is a fascinating discussion in and of itself."<p>

"Except that it has absolutely nothing to do with this because that man isn't even involved in what happened in Hanoi."

"Are you sure about that?"

Smith's eyes narrowed into slits. After a long pause, he leaned forward, weight on his arms. "He was a fucking pilot. He didn't know a damn thing about what happened on the ground. If you want to go pull him out of the hospital and ask him yourself, you be my guest. But if you want to talk to me, you're going to keep your line of questioning within a certain set of boundaries. You have my file; you know what's in it. You want more, go to my commanding officer. If that's not sufficient, put me in a cell and throw away the fucking key. I've done my job. Now you do yours."

Downing stared for a long moment, watching as Smith held his gaze steady. Not breaking that contact, the colonel slowly sat back again, and reached for the pack of cigarettes.

"Did your men work well together?"

Smith eyed him warily for a long moment before answering. "We got the job done."

"Some of your men had a bit of a reputation for violence."

"Every soldier in Southeast Asia had a reputation for violence."

Downing paused for a long moment. "Tell me about Lieutenant Templeton Peck."

"What do you want to know?"

Downing readied his pen. "How did you come to know him?"

"He was recommended to me by his commanding officer. I put in the paperwork – which I'm sure you have copies of – and he joined my team."

Downing stared. Smith hadn't told him anything he hadn't already known, and they were both aware of it. But he offered nothing more. Eyes locked, he leaned back again and dragged deeply on his cigarette.

"That simple," Downing said, in disbelief.

Smith nodded. "That simple."

Downing cleared his throat, and scribbled a few words on his pad of paper. "Are you aware of any history of misconduct that Lieutenant Peck may have had before joining your team?"

Smith smiled, and shook his head. "None whatsoever. As I understand it, he was a model soldier."

**Vietnam, 1968**

"General? Colonel Smith to see you?"

"Send him in," Westman ordered, not looking up. He heard the footsteps, and the door closed a moment later. Westman dropped his pen, and looked up at the colonel – young, for his rank – who was standing by the door. "Are you kidding me?" he demanded.

Hannibal feigned shock and surprise. "What do you mean, sir?"

"You don't know what I mean?" Westman repeated. He stood, and picked up the file from the corner of his desk. "You send me four files – one of them on a man with a rap sheet a half a mile long - and tell me that _this _is your team? Is this a joke?"

"You told me to choose my men, sir. From anywhere."

"What am I supposed to do? Make these charges go away?"

"You did say anywhere, General," Hannibal reminded again.

Westman stared. "One of the other men you chose is short ten days," he said, incredulously. "That's not even long enough to train him!"

"He's volunteered to sign for indefinite status, sir."

Jaw dropped, Westman continued to stare. "Are you kidding me?"

"Not at all, sir."

"He's just a kid, Hannibal. Not even twenty years old!"

"They're all kids, sir," Hannibal said quietly. "They all die like men. That boy has eight drops. Been wounded twice. His CO recommended him and I think he'll last."

"You've got to be kidding."

"No, sir, I've already spoken to him and he says he's willing to stay."

"Does he _know _what he's getting into?"

"I've explained it to him. And he's dropped with me before."

"When?"

"The Bright Light at Kontum three months ago."

Westman shook his head in disbelief. "Do you realize that your other guy, Brenner, is only two weeks – _two weeks_ – in country?"

"Right now, he is. But this is his second rotation."

"Well." Westman crossed his arms over his chest. "Since he's not nearly as original as your other choices, I have to ask. What the hell prompted you to pick him?"

Hannibal smiled. "He found me, sir. As did Sergeant Harrison. Apparently, there's a rumor going around that I'm setting up a team. Brenner came all the way from Dak Pek to Saigon to find me. To find out if it was true, and where he could sign up."

"Oh, of course," Westman laughed, his tone dripping sarcasm.

"He was on a Hatchet Force I met up with during his first tour. He was just out of training. But he held up very well."

"Fine. I'll give you Brenner. And I'll give you Rice, too – _if _you can hold onto him. And Harrison."

"What about Peck?"

Westman turned away. "You've got to be fucking kidding."

"You keep saying that, sir," the colonel pointed out. "But my answer's going to be the same every time."

"You know he's under arrest right now, right? And about to be dishonorably discharged."

"That remains for the jury to determine, sir."

"Oh, he's guilty. With a list that long, he's guilty of something."

Hannibal straightened a little, noting the tested tone in the general's voice. "I need him, sir."

"Like hell you do! You need that sergeant like you need a hole in the head; _I _need that sergeant like a hole in the head! I got enough problems covering _your _ass; I don't need another one like you! And at least you don't break the goddamn law."

"I wouldn't expect you to cover his ass, General," Hannibal clarified. "He's got one shot at this and he knows it. If he messes up, he's off the team and on his way back to the States to face a court martial."

Westman turned and stared.

Hannibal smiled. "Convincing reason to not mess up, don't you think?"

"I am not going to sweep a list of crimes this long under the rug."

"Have you actually looked at his charges?"

"I didn't bother. The list was long enough to convince me it wasn't worth my time."

"He doesn't play by the rules. I'll give you that. But all of those charges speak to the good of his team."

"What do you mean?" Westman asked, opening the file and glancing over the list.

"I mean that he does what he feels he has to do to get the job done. Come hell or high water, he's got his team's back."

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"It impressed his commanding officer."

"Yeah? Was that before or after he ended up in the stockade?"

"After."

Westman stared at him, not entirely sure how to take that.

Hannibal used the opportunity to step forward. "The man holds the record on POW snatches; did you see that part? One of his teammates told me about how he walked right into a bar that the VC had locked down with one of our men inside and came right back out through the front door with the man in his arms. Never fired a single shot."

"How did he do it?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. He got medical supplies out of a VC hospital. And managed to requisition both a helicopter and a pilot – an NVA pilot – when his team got shot down. And in the meantime, he turned that NVA for us. Without even being able to speak Vietnamese. _That _I got from his CO. Who came to ask me to take him. Because he's young and he's stupid but he's damn good."

"And that's supposed to make all of this okay," Westman said dryly, gesturing at the file.

Hannibal stared back at him. "Why don't you talk to him, General?" he suggested quietly. A slight smirk crossed Hannibal's lips as he considered the thought. "It might be an enlightening experience for both of you."


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Fort Bragg, December 1971**

"Did you ever have any behavioral issues with members of your team?"

"Such as?"

"Any at all?"

Hannibal lit another cigarette. This guy was a joke. Two hours of this, and they were still dancing around bullshit that made not one bit of difference in the larger scheme of things. At least, it didn't make a difference to Hannibal. Major Downing was scrounging for any kind of dirt he could get on the team. He wouldn't get it. Hannibal knew exactly what was in his file, up to the final mission they'd carried out for Colonel Morrison. And he wasn't about to give this "investigative officer" anything he didn't already have.

That said, Downing probably had – or at least had access to – the information Hannibal wanted. Like why they were here, and where the breakdown in communication was, and why Westman hadn't been notified yet. One phone call to or from him would've cleared this whole damn thing up. So why hadn't that phone call been placed yet?

"As I understand it, there are a number of outside reports – unofficial – concerning your Lieutenant Peck. And Sergeant Harrison, as well."

"Sergeant Harrison has been honorably discharged and had nothing to do with Hanoi. So you can leave him out of this."

"I was intending to."

Hannibal looked across at him, not speaking.

"I'm interested in hearing about your lieutenant."

"What about him?"

Downing paused. "We have credible information that he was involved in all sorts of illegal, for-profit activities in Vietnam."

Hannibal was silent.

"We're just curious as to whose idea it was to rob that bank. Because frankly, it doesn't seem to line up with your record or reputation. Or Sergeant Baracus, either."

Hannibal stared at him impassively. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and smiled, pausing for a long drag on his cigarette. "So you want me to burn Face."

"We're not looking to burn anyone, Colonel. We're just interested in finding out the truth of what happened."

"You want me to testify against him?"

Downing hesitated. "If he was responsible, then that would be the appropriate thing to do. And I'm sure some sort of deal could be worked out regarding your involvement."

Hannibal smiled politely. "Look. I'm going to say this one more time. Until you get a lawyer in here, all you're getting out of me is what's in that file. And for what it's worth, I can guarantee you you'll be getting the very same answer from both of my men. However, if you want to get on my good side, you'll let me see my team."

**Vietnam, 1968**

"First Sergeant Templeton Peck," the young man at the door stated formally, at attention and with a salute, "reporting as ordered, sir."

"Close the door, Sergeant." Tem took one step forward, turned, and closed the door, then stood at attention again. General Ross Westman, whom he was watching out of the corner of his eye, was sizing him up from his chair on the other side of the desk. After a long, appraising look, Westman gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. "Sit your ass down, boy."

His tone was anything but friendly. Tem didn't flinch. He obeyed the order, staring at the blank wall beyond where the general was seated. There was an open file on his desk. Tem's picture was in it.

"You know why you're here?" the general asked, with a thick southern accent.

"No, sir."

"Take a guess."

"Either Colonel Hannibal Smith asked you to talk to me or you just want the opportunity to chew my ass like everybody else."

"Oh, you're funny," Westman growled. "Real fuckin' comedian."

"Wasn't trying to be funny, sir."

The general stared at him for a long moment, then rose to his feet, slowly parading around to the front of the desk. "This war is fuckin' hell, Sergeant," he declared loudly. His authoritative voice rang off the empty walls. "Been in this country six goddamn years and it just keeps gettin' worse. Seen a lot of clowns come through here – clowns just like you. Seen a lot of 'em go home in body bags, too."

Tem swallowed, but kept his eyes straight ahead, perfect posture, not flinching as the four star general leaned over him. "So how come you're still alive?"

For a moment, he debated the safest answer to that question. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady. "I've had a good team, sir. And I had good training."

"You've had one hell of a good training," Westman agreed. "One hell of an expensive training. Feedin' you, clothin' you, payin' the best men we have to walk you though it step by step, teach you how to stay alive out there."

His training had cost nothing compared to the fighter pilots in the Air Force and Navy. Or even the Army chopper pilots. He knew it, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Westman was going somewhere with this, he was sure. Based on the intimidation tactics – ineffective as they ultimately were –Tem wondered if he might've been a drill sergeant once a very long time ago. The thought was amusing, but he didn't smile.

"Now we gotta pay even more money out so that we can have ourselves a court martial. We gotta pay your prosecution attorney, and then we gotta pay your defense attorney, and then we gotta feed and clothe your worthless ass in a military prison for the next twenty years."

Tem could think of a simple solution to that.

"And what have we gotten out of you?" Westman demanded. "Finer men than you have died out there. Why not you? How come you're still alive?"

Jaw set against the personal attack, Ten stared straight ahead. It hit home, just the way the general knew it would. Every man out there asked that question. Anyone who'd ever had a friend or teammate die in his arms. Tem could hear the flicker of anger in his own voice, even as calm and measured as it was. "I don't dwell on things like that, sir."

"Why the hell not?"

His eyes narrowed, and he glared daggers at the wall. "Because I'm a soldier," he growled back. "Sir."

Westman snorted with laughter. "Not for much longer. You're goin' to jail for a long time, boy," he answered, leaning back on the desk with his arms across his chest.

"Then so be it," Tem whispered back, through his teeth. "I'm not exactly sure what you want me to say. Sir."

Westman studied him for a moment. "You ain't even sorry for what you did, are you?"

Tem didn't answer, just stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

"Look at me, boy! I'm talkin' to you!"

Slowly, deliberately, Tem shifted his gaze, staring the general straight in the eye. But still, he didn't speak.

"I asked you a question," Westman reminded.

Tem hesitated for a long moment, glaring at the senior officer who outranked him by so much, he could probably shoot him and put him in the ground and nobody would ask questions.

"I'm not sorry."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because when my team needed supplies, I got them," he answered low, angrily. "I got them from the Vietnamese, I got them from the Yards, and I got them from other Americans. I stole them if I had to. I traded with the NVA, the VC, the Cambodians _and _the Chinese. I traded drugs, I traded sex, and I traded any information I had that wasn't classified, dangerous, or treasonous. This war _is _hell. And I made it more bearable."

Westman turned his back, walking around the desk again. But Tem didn't stop. He'd opened his mouth now – the general had all but forced him to – and he wouldn't stop until he'd said his peace. "A lot of times, I traded things that I didn't own," he continued, glaring hard at the man who slowly walked to the window. "Things that I took from burned out villages with bloody and mangled women and children lying in the streets. I stole from them. You bet your ass I stole from them. And because of it my unit has never. Lacked. _Anything_."

"That's not the way we do things in the Army, Sergeant," Westman said firmly.

Tem bit back every snide remark that almost made its way to his mouth. His contempt for the way things were done in the Army – when people died from lack of hope just as easily as from a bullet – would be saved for another time.

"The Army says I was wrong for what I did," he growled. "So I'll be more than happy to go to jail for it. But if you're asking me to be sorry, you've got another thing coming. Because I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat, sir. My people come first. If I would die for them, kill for them, why the hell wouldn't I steal for them?"

"Because that's not the way the war is won," the general answered, staring out the window.

Peck continued to burn holes into the back of Westman's head. "I didn't come here to win a goddamn war. I came because my people are dying. Because Americans are dying. And I would rather die with them – whether it be in the jungle or in a court of law – than stand by and do nothing when I know I could help them."

"Just what is that supposed to mean?"

Tem finally took in a slow, measured breath, calming himself. "The Army doesn't like my solutions. So send me to jail. But don't ask me to be sorry."

The general was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he sighed deeply. "I can see why he likes you."

"Why who likes me?"

Westman glanced back at him. The rough, authoritative attitude had dropped from both his voice and his stare. "Colonel Smith."

Tem glared at him for a long moment, then looked away, back at the wall. "Colonel Smith and I didn't talk about any of that."

"Well, then he has good instincts. Because you're certainly his type."

"His type?" Tem repeated with contempt. He looked back at the general who was once again staring out the window.

Westman was quiet for a moment. Then, finally, he turned back. "You know the charges against you?" he asked, almost casually.

Tem watched him, wary of the question and the sudden change in tone. "Yes."

"I want a detailed explanation in writing of every one of them." Westman stopped at his desk and flipped the folder closed. "Leave nothing out. You're giving this to me, not to the court."

Tem stared at him. What the hell kind of request was that? "And what will you do with it?"

Westman stared him straight in the eye. "I'll rewrite it for you," he answered dryly, completely void of emotion. "And help you turn it into something that I can present to the Pentagon. For a pardon."

Tem flinched. He couldn't help it.

"Conditional, of course, upon your ability to keep your record clean from this point forward." Westman leaned forward on the desk. "Whether or not I agree with you, Sergeant, I cannot condone your illegal actions. Now, or in the future."

Tem was staring at him. He didn't think he was doing a very good job of hiding his surprise.

"Now get the hell out of my office," Westman ordered, offhandedly gesturing to the door. "And don't come back without that explanation."


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Fort Bragg, December 1971**

Face looked a little worse for wear. Dark rings under his eyes testified to the fact that he probably hadn't slept in days. As Hannibal stepped into the cell, he jerked awake from where he'd been sleeping, sitting up, on the edge of the bed. Instantly, he was on his feet.

"Colonel."

Hannibal waited for the guard to lock the cell behind him. As he walked away, Hannibal's eyes drifted over to BA. He looked anything but tired. There was nothing in his eyes and on his face but anger.

"You guys okay?" he asked quietly.

"We ain't hurt," BA shot back.

That wasn't really the point in question. But at least it was an acknowledgment.

"Three days straight of interrogation," Face offered. "Still haven't talked to a lawyer."

"Yeah, I've noticed that," Hannibal replied, wandering to the third cot in the room and sitting down on the edge of it. But at least it was a cot in a room with his team. The separation had been more unnerving to him than the questioning.

BA was up, pacing. The cell wasn't big enough for that. But he seemed to be unable to sit still. All that anger needed some place to go. And the fear. BA would never say it - none of them would. But those memories of the last time they'd been put in a cage were simmering just underneath the surface.

"They don't care 'bout gettin' us no lawyer," BA said. "We the bad guys to them. They not gonna help."

He kept his voice low, but there was a hard growl in it. BA clearly didn't have a lot of faith in the military system of justice.

"Bad guys or not, we all want the same thing."

"A conviction?" Face offered sarcastically.

"The truth," Hannibal corrected. "Which is on those orders. And they will produce them, sooner or later."

"Let's hope it's not later," Face said dryly.

Hannibal had complete confidence in the fact that once someone actually did that, this whole thing would blow over with apologies all around. BA did not seem quite so certain. Still pacing, he turned his back to them. Large hands wrapped around the bars, gripping them tight, like he wanted to pulled them apart. Hell, he probably did want to pull them apart. The walls were way too close in here. But for the time being, there was nothing they could do about that.

BA was staring at the door on the other side of the bars. Something more than just memories and misunderstandings was going through his head. Hannibal could see that in his scowl and the tension in his back and shoulders. But when it came to talking, there was no rushing BA. So he waited.

After a long moment of silence, BA turned and looked at Hannibal. "They don't need to see orders," he said low. "All they had to do was just _ask _Westman or Morrison."

His words were delivered in the same low, angry growl, but the look in those dark eyes went well past anger. BA was worried. Maybe with reason. It didn't make sense that they were still locked up in here. The failure of the chain of command and their arrest were playing over and over again in Hannibal's own mind. He was sure BA was hearing the same broken record.

Hannibal looked away. Regardless of how this looked, how it felt, they all just needed to stay calm. This _was _a misunderstanding. The orders _were _out there. Hannibal had seen them with his own two eyes. He'd watched Morrison sign them. "Whatever is keeping Westman from making his presence known here, I can't even venture a guess. But it's not all that relevant. Our orders are in black and white. They _will_ find them."

For another long moment, there was complete silence, broken only by the occasional soft ping and thud of the ancient boiler system that heated the cell. BA's eyes never looked away from him. He didn't believe that the orders would be found. But he had complete trust and faith in what Hannibal said.

Whatever he told BA to do, Hannibal knew he would do it without question. And right now, he needed to understand this was just a mix up - a clerical error that blew up into a massive ugly scene, but still just a mistake.

Finally, BA looked away. "Hope they find 'em soon," he finally said, low in his throat. "We need outta here."

"They will," Hannibal said confidently. "They're just a little busy. After all, they've got a war to run."

**Vietnam, 1968**

"Jesus, is he always like this?" the new sergeant asked, bending at the waist with his hands on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath.

Cruiser laughed, as much as he was able before he needed more air. He was not in poor shape - not by any stretch of the imagination. But it was a hundred and two fucking degrees and Hannibal had them running eight minute miles around the perimeter of the camp. "Just wait'll the first time you piss him off."

Tem wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It didn't do much good. "You have that experience often?"

"Heard about it." Cruiser straightened. "Heard a lot of things about him, but I've only been with him a few weeks."

He kept an eye on the new kid. "Kid" wasn't an understatement. Sergeant Templeton Peck looked barely legal. It hadn't taken much prying to get Hannibal to spill on his fraudulent enlistment court martial - the hold up in Da Nang. He must've dropped out of fucking high school to join up.

Tem winced as he stood up straight again. "Any of those things you heard explain why he's running us into the ground?"

"Because it's your first day here and he wants to see if you can take it."

Right on cue, Hannibal was beside them. "Tired, kid?" He was breathing just as hard as they were, but he was doing it with a smile.

"No," Tem answered defiantly.

"Good." Hannibal raised a brow at Cruiser. "Sergeant?"

Cruiser grinned like the devil. As long as Hannibal could keep dishing it out, he could take it. "Bring it on, Colonel."

"Let's go then. Eight more laps and I'll let you guys have the rest of the night off."

"Really?" Cruiser laughed. "Now that's a fucking incentive."

The kid made it through Hannibal's horrific training run. A sixty second shower and a change of clothes and he looked no worse for wear. "We're five miles from civilization and I want a beer," he declared, standing in front of the sheet of tin foil on the wall that served as a mirror. He glanced back at Cruiser before running his comb through his hair again. "You game?"

Cruiser smiled. "What did you have in mind?"

**Fort Bragg, January 1972**

"Would the accused please rise?"

Hannibal stood slowly, offering only a quick glance at the two men who stood beside him. Beyond them, in the small crowd made up mostly of soldiers he'd met in SOG, his eyes locked with one of them. Ray "Boston" Brenner offered a tight smile - an attempt at encouragement - before looking at the long table of judges.

"What does the panel find?"

With a slow, steady breath out, shoulders back and ready for anything, Hannibal turned to face the man on the end who held the verdict in his hand. "Colonel Smith, Lieutenant Peck, Sergeant Baracus..."

He could have heard a pin drop in the room. Another slow, steady breath, and he stood perfectly still, the picture of calm. His thoughts were racing. He knew the verdict before he heard it. There was no one to validate their orders to rob the Bank of Hanoi. With Colonel Morrison dead, and Murdock's mind injured beyond his ability to even testify, and no copy of their orders or anyone to verify them, they had only character witnesses in support of their claim.

"It is my duty as the president of this court to inform you that in closed session on secret ballot, all of the members present concur in finding you guilty of robbery and treason."

It was like a blow to the chest, but he'd been ready for it. His expression remained calm.

"You are hereby sentenced to twenty years in maximum security at -"

"Hannibal!"

Hannibal's eyes snapped open, and he found himself staring at a cement ceiling. Confused and disoriented, he blinked a few times, glancing around him. He was alone in the damp, cold cell. A criminal. In prison. And now he was awake.

"Hannibal, you okay?"

He sat up, swinging his legs down to the floor, and leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. "I'm fine."

They'd moved them again after only two days in the same cell and placed them in three adjoining cells. There they'd stayed - mostly without contact with the outside world - for over a month. The interrogations had stopped, but that didn't bring the end any closer to being in sight.

"Who're you talking to?"

He sighed deeply and stood up, walking to the bars and slipping his arms through. He folded his hands on the other side. "No one," he answered quietly. "I was sleeping."

"Man, how can you sleep at a time like this?" BA demanded, his voice much less calm than Face's. "That trial starts in two days! We ain't even talked to no lawyer, man!"

Hannibal sighed. "Calm down, BA."

"No! You need to come up with a plan! We can't just -"

"Sergeant!" Hannibal snapped with a glare in the direction of the next cell over even though he knew that BA couldn't see him through the wall. The authoritative tone was no longer a request. "I said to secure that." He didn't need them panicking. He couldn't deal with panic right now. Too many other things on his mind.

The answering sigh was audible as BA regained control. "Sorry, Hannibal. I lost my head."

"You know," Face mumbled, barely audible through the wall, "he's got a point. Maybe we should be thinking about a way to... you know..."

Hannibal frowned deeply. "A way to what?" he demanded.

"Well, I just mean..."

Hannibal knew what he meant.

"Morrison would've sent a copy of those orders to Washington," he reminded them for the hundredth time. "And to General Westman, for that matter. All they have to do is find them. Then this whole mess will be cleared up."

Face hesitated. "You keep saying that. But if they'd been able to find them, they probably wouldn't still be holding us in here a month later."

"What if they can't find the orders, Hannibal?" BA asked, his tone edgy again.

"Westman should still be able to testify to them. He would've known the details of the mission before he agreed to send us."

"I thought you said he was vague about it when you talked to him," Face recalled. "Like he didn't really know."

Hannibal hesitated. He'd considered that, but he wasn't about to admit it. "He was vague. That doesn't mean he didn't know. I didn't talk to him in person, and the lines over there were never guaranteed to be secure."

"So we just," Face hesitated for a long moment, "wait. We wait for him to testify. Or for them to find the orders."

"There's not much else we can do right now. Even if we could get out of here, it won't make the charges go away. It'll just make us AWOL." Hannibal sighed deeply, running both hands through his blond hair. "We're better off just letting them sort this out. Especially since we really _didn't _commit any crime."


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Vietnam, 1968**

The bar wasn't anything particularly special. Getting there was half the fun. A half hour down the muddy, bumpy road in the jeep with the two of them in the front and three more guys from the camp in the back. This road was well secured; the threat from the trees was only minimal. Still, Cruiser kept his eyes peeled. They were no less peeled as they piled out of the Jeep and went their separate ways - the three men in the back off to god-knows-where, Cruiser and Tem into the bar.

The working girls looked up as they walked in, and smiled. The owner came to greet them. Within minutes, they were at one of the rickety tables drinking warm, formaldehyde-flavored beer.

"Something tells me we would've been better off hitting the nearest base and finding a PX. We'd get a lot more drunk with a lot less gagging with a good bottle of scotch. Or even cheap whiskey."

Cruiser laughed as he stared at Tem. God, that name was fucking awful. "The nearest PX takes a chopper to get to."

"I'm okay with that."

Cruiser eyed him for a moment. He talked like he had one in his back pocket. Did he not realize that this bar, the restaurant next door, and the whorehouse across the way were the only establishments of any interest whatsoever for miles? He couldn't be completely green...

"Hannibal's gonna run us again in the morning."

The kid frowned. "What time is morning?"

"Oh-four-hundred if tradition holds."

He rolled his eyes. "Shit..." He sighed deeply. "So much for scotch."

Cruiser sat back in the chair and easily swallowed half a glass of warm piss before he spoke again. "Get me a bottle of good tequila any day of the week."

Tem eyed him for a moment. The look in his eye was almost like the look Hannibal got when he was planning something that was going to wreak havoc on anything in his path. If there was a difference, it was in that Tem seemed quite a bit more suspicious.

"Tequila, huh?"

Cruiser smiled and shrugged. He wasn't picky but if he had his choice, "A bottle of Tequila and a couple of whores." He smiled wolfishly. "If you're taking orders that is."

He watched the kid for a moment to see how he would react to that. Whores where nothing special and certainly not a new concept to anyone who'd been in county more than a week. But this kid looked so fucking wet behind the ears he may as well be a choirboy.

Tem didn't have a chance to answer Cruiser before he was interrupted. "Son of a bitch, Peck!"

They both looked up at the man who was stumbling toward them, his arm over a well-used woman with a beer in his other hand. He took his arm off the girl and held it out to Tem. "How the hell you been?"

Tem looked up, and smiled. It was such a fucking perfect smile, and clearly fake, it was almost worthy of a laugh. "Walters," he greeted.

The man shook his hand, then turned back to the girl, pulling out a ten dollar bill. He tucked it into her bra. "You," he grabbed another girl by the arm as she passed, and put an identical bill in her shirt, "go dance with her, okay?"

He smiled and pushed them both towards each other and the juke box at the back of the bar, kissing each one first. Tem's smile and wink to them was very evident as they walked away, and Walters laughed. "Oh, no. No using your charm on her. Find your own hookers. There's plenty of them here."

Tem smiled and gestured for him to sit, saying nothing.

"None of them as nice looking at those two you had in Saigon. But good looking pussy is hard to find in these parts." He sat down. "Hey, let me buy you a round."

"By all means." The kid was still smiling. "And for reference, those girls weren't hookers. They were the daughters of a very polite businessman in Saigon.

Walters laughed. "Who you very politely fucked."

Tem smirked. "At the same time."

"And probably while they were both high as a kite."  
>Tem shrugged.<p>

Walters laughed. "Only you could get fine looking pussy like that for free. It's like a God given gift."

Tem sipped his beer. "Never said it was free. I said they weren't hookers."

Cruiser listened to the exchange with amusement. As the newcomer laughed, Cruiser extended a hand. "You got a name, man?"

"Ken Walters." He shook with him. "But call me Gator."

"Gator," Cruiser repeated. "RT Colt?"

Gator smiled broadly. "That's right. You?"

"Cannon. Cruiser."

"Cannon? Never heard of it."

Cruiser grinned. "Newly formed."

"Who's your One-Zero?"

"Hannibal Smith."

Gator laughed. "Aw, fuck, man. He is fuckin' bad ass on the ground from what I hear."  
>"Yeah, you and me both." Cruiser glanced at Tem, who was quietly observing with nothing to add. Maybe this was a good time to get him to talk. "So, Gator, tell me. What the fuck is this schoolboy's goddamn name?"<p>

Gator laughed loudly at the question. Every man in SOG had a name - and not just the one they were born with. Sometimes it said a lot about them. In any case, it was more meaningful than the first and last saved for formal address. "What, Tem here hasn't told you?"

Tem's eyes shifted, but he said nothing. Clearly, he didn't like where this conversation was going. But that was obvious from the fact that he'd been so determined not to answer the question himself. Whatever the name was, he obviously was not a fan. Cruiser found that even more amusing than the kid may have thought.

"Take a look at him," Gator continued with a grin. "Looks like they recruited him right outta grade school. But he's one of the toughest, dirtiest bastards I ever had on the ground with me."

"I was on the ground with you _once_," Tem clarified, his voice cold.

Cruiser raised a brow, not sure why he couldn't just take the compliment. He was staring at Gator with a look meant to kill. But he didn't say a word. Just sipped his drink, never flinching.

"Schoolboy's pretty tight lipped 'bout what he's called," Cruiser said. "I'm about to start making shit up."

"Go right ahead," Tem said flatly.

Cruiser smirked.

"Ah, no way." Gator snickered. "You won't get any more perfect than Babyface."

Cruiser nearly choked on his drink. "Babyface! Who the fuck thought that up?"

"Like Babyface Floyd," Gator explained. "Looks so young and sweet, but in his chest beats the heart of brutal, cunning, S.O.B."

Cruiser raised a brow as he looked at Schoolboy Babyface McGee, who was still glaring at Gator, unflinching. No wonder the kid didn't want it out. "What kind of fucking idiots did you get tagged up with?"

He nodded in Gator's direction. "That kind."

Cruiser watched both of them with a mix of confusion and amusement. What the hell was this guy made of, anyway? More importantly, what was the new kid on the block made of? "You take that shit from this bitch?" he asked, jerking his head in Gator's.

Babyface - fuck, that was just too stupid for Cruiser to stomach - shrugged. Cruiser's laughter got the better of him and he stopped fighting it as he concentrated on pouring another drink. "Fuck, man." He looked at Gator. "I'da fuckin' shot your ass."

"Hey, I didn't _give _him the name."  
>Face didn't look away from Gator, didn't pause in his drink. He finished, and set it down, and reclined in his chair comfortably. "You are aware that my sphere of influence may continue to affect you down the road."<p>

Gator blinked, and put up his hands in surrender. "Oh, hey, I know that." Clearly, that threat hit home.

Face didn't flinch, just smirked slightly. "That's the problem with you, Gator. You show your hand too early."

If it was meant as an insult, it was lost on Gator, who merely smiled and lowered his voice as he leaned forward. "Hey, any chance I can score some of that horse you had last time?" He reached into his pocket for cash. "I mean, that was primo shit. Best in Southeast Asia."

Cruiser's jaw stopped working and he went still as he took that in and watched closely for the kid's reaction. What was this, some kind of a joke? This guy was looking to score off of "Babyface"? He wasn't sure whether to laugh or simply be shocked.

"Sorry." The kid's voice was cold, and dead serious. He didn't think it was a joke. "I'm out of the business."

"Aw come on now." Gator's eyes shifted briefly to Cruiser, as if evaluating whether he was the reason for that answer. "Everyone knows you're the man to go to if you wanna ride the dragon." He reached in his pocket for more money. "But if you need more cash, that's cool. Your shit's worth it."

"I don't fucking have it," Face said firmly. He took another drink. "Did you _miss _the whole part about how I got busted and set up for courts martial for that shit? I'm out."

Cruiser watched the kid. This was not what Hannibal had said was going on. Drugs were an entirely different deal than fraudulent enlistment. But if Face had been busted, Hannibal knew about it. Cruiser poured himself another drink and sat back in the chair, watching quietly.

Slowly, it was dawning on Gator that he wasn't getting any heroin from Face. His eyes narrowed, and he put his money away before pushing back from the table. "You got busted, but you're not in the stockade."

Face watched him passively, sipping his beer. He didn't look like he had any inclination to answer, and Gator never gave him the chance anyway.

"That's fuckin' strange, because the shit you were into should get you twenty years. What'd you do? Turn rat and sell out your contacts?"

Face was over the table - not around it - almost before Gator had a chance to finish speaking. Cruiser barely had a chance to grab his beer and pull it out of the way. He stayed seated, watching with a smile as Gator pulled a fist back. He was glad - and really, relieved - that Face wasn't taking this daisy's shit. Maybe had some balls after all.

When it came down to it, the kid had Hannibal's seal of approval. Until that got revoked - and knowing Hannibal, it would take a hell of a lot - Cruiser had his back. If the schoolboy hadn't jumped this asshole, Cruiser sure as hell would have. Nice to know he didn't have to. If the kid could take care of himself, all the better.

Gator's blow landed as Face grabbed the front of his shirt. The kid's grip kept him from stumbling from the much larger man's blow. The next several were all delivered by Face. Gator's drunken fists continued to flail as they stumbled together, into one of the tables, cracking it under their weight and crashing to the floor. It attracted the attention of the entire bar, and around them, men began laughing and cheering, enjoying the bit of entertainment.

Gator was drunk, but he was big. Using his weight and momentum, he managed to roll Face onto his back. Sitting on his chest, he pulled back for a punch to the jaw with all his two hundred pounds behind it. Face reached up, but instead of an attempt to block, he twisted his arm around Gator's and grabbed his shirt again. As the blow landed across Face's mouth, he turned his head with it and immediately used his other hand to grab Gator's wrist. Whatever he did, it was fast. Gator rolled the way Face pushed him, probably to avoid a broken wrist, and they tumbled one over the other until they hit another table.

The bar manager was out now, begging and pleading for the damage to stop. Cruiser watched the whole production like an instructor watching a pupil. The kid wasn't half bad. He seemed to have it under control, without any help. He didn't let anything distract him as one final, decisive blow bounced Gator's head off the floor, and the fight was suddenly over.

Face released his grip on the man's shirt and slowly stood, wiping the blood from his mouth. The bar manager was upon him immediately. "What you do! What you do? You no do this in my bar!"

A pathetic round of applause went up from the few soldiers who'd been watching, but they lost interest quickly. Face calmed the bar manager with a small wad of cash, and cast another, lingering look at Gator before walking back to the table. Cruiser was grinning like the Cheshire cat by the time he got there.

Face didn't bother to sit down as he finished the last of his beer, and didn't look at Cruiser as he gave an offhanded, "I'm getting out of here."

Cruiser laughed freely at the tone, "Play well with others, Face?"

Face glared briefly at him and gave a cold, "Fuck you," before turning away and heading for the door.

Cruiser laughed as he stood up and followed with a full mug of beer in hand.


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Fort Bragg, January 1972**

The cell was dark, but not pitch black. It was still light enough to see the cracks in the ceiling, the shadows of the bars on the wall. Hannibal closed his eyes, lying on his back. He wondered what time it was. It had to be well after midnight by now. For several long, quiet minutes, he lay still, feigning sleep, trying to trick his mind into quieting down for the night. It wasn't going to happen, and he knew it. But it was worth a shot.

A creak from the cell next to him. Was Face awake? He opened his eyes, but didn't move. He might have just been turning over on the cot. But several seconds later, he heard a deep sigh, and footsteps. The bars rattled just slightly; Face was leaning on them. Hannibal didn't have to see him to know what the scene looked like.

"What's on your mind, Lieutenant?"

A sigh. "What isn't on my mind, Colonel?" He kept his voice low to not wake BA or draw attention from the guards at the end of the row of cells. "You know, of all the crap I've done, the last thing I'd expect is to get locked up for something that was completely legit."

A small smile crept across Hannibal's face. "It is ironic, isn't it?"

The bars rattled again as Face pushed himself away from them. "How do we play this, Hannibal?"

"We wait. They'll find the orders."

That did not satisfy Face in the least. "If they could find them, they would've done it already. Our arrest wasn't some covert op; everyone knows about it. If someone had those orders, they would have turned them over. Westman would've turned them over. Where the hell is he anyways?"

Hannibal didn't reply.

"Jesus, Hannibal, what happens if they don't find the orders?"

"If they never turn up the orders, Westman will testify."

"What if he doesn't? Or he can't?"

Hannibal laughed, without humor. What the hell was he supposed to say? "Well, then I guess we're fucked. What do you want me to do about it, Lieutenant? You want to go over the wall? The hell with the trial altogether?"

Hannibal knew that his sarcastic tone was not lost on Face; they'd had this conversation before. But Face answered with complete seriousness. "We could."

"Yeah, and we couldget thrown back in here with even more charges against us. And even if we don't, living the rest of my life as a military fugitive doesn't appeal. Especially when we didn'tdo anything wrong and they willbe able to prove it with Westman's testimony if not the papers themselves."

Face growled audibly. "Fuck Westman's testimony, Hannibal. It's hearsay anyways. Jesus..." Footsteps. The lieutenant was pacing. "You know, Hannibal, if we get convicted, we could actually be spending a _lot _of time in prison."

"We could."

"Treason is..." Again, the bars rattled. "Shit, Hannibal, that's grounds for execution in most places."

"Not here," Hannibal reminded him quietly. "At least not since the 50s."

"That wasn't thatlong ago."

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you."

"I'm not worried." He was lying. "But you know, even if this all turns into a big misunderstanding we laugh about in twenty years, I'm still stuck in here because of everything else. I mean, _exactly _how clean did you guys manage to make my record? Because I was under the direct impression that all of that shit could come back and if it does... Hell, they might as well just prep the firing squad."

"None of that was a capital offense."

"Hell, Hannibal, if I've gotta spend the rest of my life in here? I'd _rather _face a firing squad."

Hannibal frowned. "If they were going to charge you with any of that, they would've done it when they arrested you. Besides, Westman didn't try to cover it up. He got it pardoned. They'd have to come up with something new."

"He got it pardoned _conditionally_."

"Well, conditional upon this being a big misunderstanding, you should be free to go."

"Oh. Great. So I just get to spend the next thirty years of my life in a hole for something I didn't do! That just makes me feel so much better."

The dramatics were beginning to creep under Hannibal's skin. "Again. What would you like me to do about it? They'll find the papers, Face."

"Since when did you have such undying faith in the government to go out of their way to make sure they had the whole story?"

Hannibal's eyes narrowed at the ceiling. "Since when did _running _become your solution to the problem?" he demanded, pointedly.

"Fuck you, I'm not the one offering to go over the wall at a moment's notice."

"I never said I was willing to go over the wall." Footsteps again, then the cot creaked. Face sighed audibly. "I asked you if that's what you're expecting me to do. _You're _ the one pacing in your cell asking me how we're going to get out of this even when you know it's out of my hands."

"Since when is anything completely out of your hands, Hannibal?"

Hannibal sighed. He could ask again what Face expected him to do, but he'd get the same non-answer. Clearly, Face was not expecting a solution. He was right - Hannibal did not feel that the situation was completely out of his hands. Going over the wall was, in fact, an option - a last resort. Hannibal knew this camp well; they all did. For Face and BA, most of their training was done here. And Hannibal had been called here on more than one occasion. He already had several ideas for how they could escape. The problem was... he didn't want to escape. There was absolutely no reason why they shouldn't be able to work it out, to find the orders, to clear their records. But he could say that over and over again until he ran out of breath, and Face still wasn't going to hear it.

"It just doesn't make any sense," Face sighed. "And that's what the foundation of the legal system is based on: logic. If I can't make sense out of it, how is a jury supposed to?"

"You keep staring at the problem, you're just going to make it seem bigger and bigger."

"And this cell smaller and smaller," Face countered, quickly. He sighed again. "I just hope you have a plan for when this whole 'the truth shall set you free' locks us up instead."

Hannibal chuckled. "Like what? Escape? We're back to square one, kid."

"Damn it!"

Hannibal understood his confusion. He understood the frustration. There was nothing to do here but think, and the more he thought, the more his mind wound a path around and around, creating a rut. They were fucked. Face believed that; Hannibal wouldn't let himself believe it yet. Not until he knew for sure. But one way or another, there was no easy solution. There was no _viable _solution. The ruts wore deeper and deeper.

"Sorry, kid."

"You know, if I had known this was going to happen, I would have spent my last few hours in the free world fucking the hottest thing I could find."

Hannibal chuckled. "Your priorities never cease to amuse me."

"Yeah." Face smiled; Hannibal could hear it in his voice. "I'm glad my afflictions amuse you." A long pause. Hannibal turned onto his stomach, tucking his arms underneath his head. "What would you have done?" Face finally asked. "And don't say you would've found the papers, either."

Hannibal smiled. But gradually, his smile fell as he considered his response. "I don't know," he finally admitted, quiet and serious. "But I would've rather been anywhere else when they came to arrest us."

Face was quiet. It was several long, silent moments before he spoke again. "Sorry Hannibal," he said quietly, "I wasn't thinking."

Hannibal sighed deeply. "It's alright." It wasn't alright. "They'll get him the help that he needs, whether we're there or not."

No answer. Hannibal didn't expect one. Face didn't want to talk about Murdock any more than Hannibal did. With a deep sigh, Hannibal closed his eyes, letting the thoughts fade away into the darkness. "Go to sleep, Face." He sighed again, and turned to face the wall, hugging himself. "We're supposed to meet that lawyer tomorrow morning. I need you on your game."

"For what?" Face asked hesitantly.

Hannibal stared at the dark wall, well aware of the fact that neither one of them would be sleeping tonight. "Just in case he _doesn't _think he can get us out of this."


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Vietnam, 1968**

Hannibal looked as if he'd just been hit by a truck. Those dark rings under his eyes, unshaven... It was the way he usually looked coming off of assignment, back to the base - not the way he was supposed to look the day before he went out on the ground.

"Colonel, you look like shit." It was as close to asking what was wrong as Cruiser would ever come.

Hannibal looked up from the hastily constructed desk and the folder that was lying in front of him beside a tin of coffee and the cigar that had burned itself out long ago. If he had to guess, Cruiser would've assumed that coffee to be ice cold.

"Where's Sergeant Peck?"

Cruiser shrugged. "He went to bed. Figured you're gonna get us up again at the crack of dawn."

"Yeah," Hannibal answered, resigned.

Cruiser watched him closely. He'd never seen Hannibal worried before, about anything. Even when he _should _be worried, it just didn't happen. Something about it seemed very wrong.

Hannibal sighed deeply. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"What do you think about this kid? Honestly."

Cruiser studied him for a moment, trying to get a read on where this was going. "Well, I haven't seen him on the ground, but I'm gonna take your word for it that his CO said he was good."

"I mean personally," Hannibal clarified. Their eyes met briefly. "You went out with him tonight. What do you think?"

"You're asking if I _like _him?"

Hannibal nodded. "Personally."

Cruiser shrugged, and pulled over a chair. He turned it so he could cross his arm over the back of it. "Sure. But that's irrelevant. He's here because he's solid. That trumps personal likes and dislikes any day of the week"

Hannibal sighed, and glanced back at the folder on the desk. "He's got one hell of a record, Cruiser."

Cruiser sobered a little at that. "The drugs?"

The suspicion in Hannibal's gaze was evident. "He told you about that?"

"Not exactly. A guy came up to us looking to score. Face turned him down."

"Face?"

Cruiser grinned. "Kid's got a name after all."

Hannibal sighed, not terribly interested, and leaned forward, head in his hand. "He's good at what he does, Cruiser. But I honestly don't think it's worth it."

"So bag him," Cruiser answered with a shrug. It seemed like an easy solution.

Hannibal was quiet for a minute, then stood up and took a few steps, pacing. "He's good. He's _damn _good. His commanding officers have said it, his teams have said it... His list of -" He cut off shaking his head. "He's got _thirty-two _POW snatches, Cruiser. And half of those, he wasn't even the One-Zero. The One-Zero _deferred _to him, in the field. There's no way in hell he should even be _alive_, much less..."

He trailed off, shaking his head, pacing the cement floor. Cruiser watched, his smile growing as Hannibal made his own counterargument.

"Everyone who's ever worked with him says I'll be lucky to have him. But I sure as _hell _don't like what's in his past."

"You knew about him before you ever met the guy," Cruiser reminded him. "Or didn't his CO tell you what he'd been arrested for?"

Hannibal's look was conflicted. "Yes. But hearing it in his own words is a little bit different."

"His own words?" Cruiser raised a brow.

"He wrote and signed a confession for Westman. Per my request. To get it all cleared off of his record. He's got a list of charges a mile long - everything from impersonating a commissioned officer to pandering - and those were the ones I _knew_ about. And he's got stuff in there I _didn't _know about that under any other circumstances, I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole."

"Like what?" Cruiser wasn't prying. Really, he didn't care what was in that file. But Hannibal clearly did.

"Like the drugs."

Cruiser shrugged. "Alright, so pandering is bad enough. And you knew about that and still wanted him. What makes the drugs different? Past is past."

Hannibal's look was cold. "Tell it to the guy who wanted the heroin tonight."

"Yeah, but he didn't get any."

"Do you know what kind of trouble we could potentially have with his contacts?"

"Hannibal, that's the least of our problems in the jungle."

"But I can't keep him in the jungle. And he didn't name anybody but he's probably got contacts all over the country."

"Alright, so what? Some pissed off supplier gets the drop on him in Saigon or some VC shoots him in the head in the jungle; one way or another, he's got a short life expectancy. We all do."

"It's an unnecessary risk."

Cruiser laughed. "Look who's talking!"

He meant no disrespect with that, and Hannibal knew it. Still, he glared. "If he gets scared and runs back, it _will _go public. That's going to come back on Westman. And who do you think is going to take the fall for it? Because it sure as fucking hell won't be a four star general."

"So this is about safeguarding your rank?" Cruiser raised a brow. That made no sense, based on what he knew of Hannibal so far.

"This is about safeguarding my _team_," Hannibal clarified. "Because at any moment, Westman could pull that rug out from under us. We aren't exactly on the books, Cruiser. When there's more risk of scandal than there is benefit to keeping us around, we lose all those special privileges we've got. Like the ability to _exist_."

Cruiser studied him for a moment, considering that. "So it's not really a question of whether or not he _survives_ his decision, it's a matter of whether he sticks to it."

"Oh, don't get me wrong." Hannibal laughed cynically. "Last thing I want is to invest a shitload of time and energy into him so he can get killed by 'friendly fire' in a bar somewhere."

"Right. But that's not exclusively his problem. We all face that."

Hannibal knew full well that there was risk involved any time he signed a pass for his team. Terrorists attacked places filled with Americans on a semi-regular basis. There was no place in Vietnam that was "safe."

Hannibal sat down again, head in his hands. Cruiser sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He wasn't good at this shit. The debate was pointless; make a decision and deal with it. It was so much simpler that way.

"Look, you've got a confession right?" he said. "The kid knows his ass is in a sling - especially if he admitted to things you didn't already have on him." Which made no sense at all. "So he's playing ball. And more importantly, he's playing in your court. You can sideline him any time you want - which is the whole point of the confession, right?" He shrugged. "So use it."

"That's not the problem."

"He made his decision when he wrote it. You're the best - probably the only - defense he's got against those old contacts. Even if he _wanted _to go back, what's he gonna do? Pretend like he _didn't _cut a deal to keep his ass out of jail? Even the guy tonight assumed he was a rat. His career was over when those handcuffs went on. And he'd have to be pretty fucking stupid to turn on you."

"I don't know if I can trust him, Cruiser," Hannibal said quietly.

"And that's different now because it was drugs he was trading and not skin?"

"It's different because he did all of that stuff while all of his commanding officers didn't know a goddamn thing. He's good. In more ways than one. And I'll be damned if I want someone who's that good of a liar on my team."

Cruiser sat there for a long moment. He really didn't know what to say to that. His own tolerance for lies and games was notoriously nonexistent. He dropped his eyes to the floor trying to figure out what the hell to say. "None of his CO's knew about what was going on?"

"If they did, they chose not to tell me."

"Right." They both knew that wasn't the case. Cruiser sighed. "Bottom line, Hannibal, if the guy signed his life over to you on that paper, he's looking for help out of it. He's not going to fuck you over."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. "Westman says he'll discharge him if I don't want him. Honorably, but forcibly. Which is a hell of a lot better offer than the kid had before."

Cruiser shrugged. "So do it. What's the problem?"

"The problem is he doesn't want to go."

"Who gives a fuck what he wants?"

"I do. Because he's damn good at what he does and if he wants to keep doing it, that makes him one hell of a resource."

Cruiser sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Hannibal. Everyone's got a past. Only difference is you know his."

Hannibal studied him for a long moment. "You'd keep him," he finally assumed.

Cruiser nodded slightly. "Yeah, I'd keep him. But I'm not you. If you can't trust him, he's not worth shit on this team."

Hannibal covered his eyes with his hand, rubbing his temples. "I swear to God, Cruiser, if we're wrong? If he pulls something with this team, or does _any _of those things in that file ever again? I will shoot his sorry ass myself."

His tone suggested he was only partly exaggerating. Cruiser smirked, glad that this discussion finally seemed to be coming to a close. "That going in _your _confession?"

Hannibal offered a tired smile, and flipped the folder closed on the desk.

**Vietnam, 1968**

The kid was alert. And he was a good shot, too. Hannibal knew that already; he never would've taken him into the woods if he didn't. But it was always telling to see how men reacted to real and imminent danger. Face reacted well. When he didn't drop his target in two three second bursts, he fell to his stomach, switched his gun to full-manual, and fired three shots. All three of them hit.

Where the hell did he learn to shoot like that?

The shootout lasted only a few minutes. It ended with only minor injuries to his team - a wounded arm on one of the Yards and a twisted ankle when another had tried to run for cover. As Hannibal scanned, and determined that the coast was clear, he rose back to his feet, stepping out from behind the trees.

"Where there's one..." Face hinted.

Hannibal nodded. "They'll send more." He glanced at the young sergeant, and nodded to his weapon. "You're pretty good with that thing."

"Thanks." Face grinned.

"What do you say we stick around and do some target practice?"

Boston stepped closer, wiping the sweat from his forehead and smearing his greasepaint all over his hand and face. "Target practice?" he asked, curious.

"Up in those trees," Hannibal pointed. "Since it's a pretty sure bet that they _will _send more soldiers out this way."

Face raised a brow. "Uh huh. Possibly several hundred. We're not _that _far from a known base."

Hannibal smiled. "How much ammo you got for that gun, Sergeant?"

Face stared at him. Finally, he smiled.

Boston laughed as he clapped a hand over Hannibal's shoulder. "You're fuckin' crazy, Colonel; you know that? God damn, I love you."

"Make sure you get the Yards situated," Hannibal ordered. "And sent Wo to me so I can dress his arm." Hannibal looked around, hoping the young man hadn't run off. "If you can findhim."


	9. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Fort Bragg, January 1972**

"You say you were under orders?"

The young attorney, a Lieutenant Mark Bensen, couldn't have had more than a year of experience with law. He was cutting his teeth on the case that would determine the next twenty years of their lives, at least. And he hadn't even bothered to meet with them until the night before the trial. Hannibal knew where this was going, and he didn't like it. This whole scenario was all shades of questionable justice.

Luckily, he didn't have to count too much on this guy. It was easy to prove innocence when one was actually innocent. And maybe he could tell them where the damn paperwork was.

"Yes," he answered firmly. "We were under orders."

"Do you have anyone who could substantiate that?"

"There should be a copy of the orders in Washington," Hannibal shot, slightly annoyed by the disinterested tone the man used. "Go find them."

"We're looking. But so far, there's nothing."

Face frowned deeply. "What do you mean, there's nothing?"

"Just what I said. We haven't been able to find a copy of your orders in Washington."

Face exchanged glances with BA, but Hannibal's eyes remained steady on Bensen. "What about the copy that was sent to General Westman?" he demanded.

"Do you know for sure that it was sent?"

"Of course it was," Hannibal shot back, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why wouldn't it have been?"

Bensen looked away. "Well, because General Westman says he never received an official copy of the orders. And the mission that Morrison detailed to him when he requested your team had nothing to do with the Bank of Hanoi."

Face's eyes widened. "What?"

"Actually, he's being called as a witness for the prosecution."

"What!" BA was out of his seat, fists pounding on the table with such force that even the placid attorney jumped.

"Can they...?" Face glanced back and forth between Hannibal, who had lowered his head as he studied the table, and the attorney who was reclining comfortably in his chair. "They can force him to testify _against _us?"

"They didn't have to force him," Bensen informed. "He volunteered. His testimony was what got them the warrant for your arrest in the first place."

"What!" Even Hannibal couldn't withhold his surprise at that.

Face stared across the table, jaw dropped. "Are you kidding?"

"I'm afraid not."

"How...?" Face turned to look at Hannibal, who was quickly regaining his composure. "He wouldn't really testify against us, would he? No, there's got to be some kind of mistake!"

Hannibal could sense the increasing panic. On the other side of Face, BA was clenching his fists tightly, seething. Once again, Hannibal's own concern was buried under a layer of enforced calm. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward on them.

"What is Westman going to say?" he asked quietly, looking the attorney in the eye.

"Well, he says he doesn't remember receiving an official copy of the orders," Bensen said. "But when he spoke to Colonel Morrison - when Morrison requested your team - he'd told him that the mission was to capture an NVA Colonel from his estate near Hanoi."

"That's a lie!" BA yelled. Bensen looked at him as he bounced up out of his chair again.

"Why would Westman lie about that?" Face echoed, confused.

He wouldn't. Hannibal knew that. Westman wasn't the problem here. He had no reason to burn them and if he did, he had better ways of doing it than lying to a military court. That just wasn't something he would do. BA sat back down, wringing and twisting his hands together. Bensen looked to Hannibal for a clearer explanation.

"Those are not the orders we got from Morrison," Hannibal said firmly. "And it's not what Westman told us, either."

"What did he tell you?"

"The general wasn't clear on what the assignment was, but that wasn't unusual. We typically got our specific orders from the camp we were assigned to. General Westman assigned us a camp, then we went there to find out what they needed."

"So did you often venture that far into enemy territory without specific orders from your commanding officer?"

The sarcasm in the young man's voice made Hannibal's eyes narrow into slits. "We had orders from our commanding officer to _take _orders from Colonel Morrison. I don't think he'd have any problem testifying to that."

Bensen held up his hands. "Hey, I'm just trying to figure out where the ball was dropped," he defended. "Because if you guys really didn't do anything wrong, we've got hell of facts standing against you that need some kind of explanation."

"Hannibal," Face's tone was full of worry, "if Westman's going to testify that our orders were to snatch an NVA colonel..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to. The moment of silence that followed gave Hannibal a chance to work through the fleeting theory that he hadn't even wanted to admit having. "It's starting to sound more and more like we were set up, guys," he said reflectively.

"That's right!" BA snapped. "Somebody framed us!"

"If that's the case," Face hesitated, "there's only two people..."

"There's only Morrison," Hannibal corrected.

"Either way, there's not going to be any papers in Washington. At least not the real ones."

Bensen nodded. "I suppose it's a small consolation, but they haven't been able to find any orders to validate Westman's version, either. Though I think his testimony will hold substantially more weight than your own. So unless we can get a copy of those orders you say you got, all we've got is your word against the general's."

Hannibal leaned back. "Alright Bensen. You have sufficiently brightened my day. So what's your suggestion on how to deal with all of this?"

"Well..." Clearly, it was no suggestion he was proud to offer. "We can try to deal."

"You mean plead guilty," Face clarified.

"Which we're not," Hannibal added.

"But can you _prove _it?" Bensen shook his head. "Because without those papers, nobody else knows anything about those orders."

"Except Murdock," Face mumbled under his breath.

"Who?"

Hannibal sighed deeply, eyes lowered. "Our pilot. Captain HM Murdock."

"Where is he?"

They all exchanged glances. It was BA who spoke first. "He in the psych ward at the VA," he answered. "The man's crazy."

"Do you think he'd be well enough to testify?"

"I doubt it," Hannibal said. His chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back, rising to his feet. "Even if he was - his word won't stand against General Westman's."

"Was he aware of the details of the mission?" Bensen asked. "I would've thought they indicted everyone involved."

Hannibal paced a few steps. "He was just a pilot. Most pilots don't know much about what happens on the ground."

"But you say he did?"

"That's what we said, fool!" BA snapped. "You got a problem with that?"

Face sat up a little straighter, eyes on BA just in case he lost it. They were all on edge, but BA was like a ticking time bomb - in and out of his seat with fists pounding on the table.

"Murdock won't be much help to us," Face explained glancing briefly at the well-dressed man across the table. "He had a crash and was stuck on the ground for a few days with Charlie. He's... pretty messed up from it."

"He's crazy," BA clarified. "You can't put him on the stand to testify!"

Hannibal wandered back from the barred window and toward the door. Two armed guards stood outside. The hallway was empty. He suspected the door was locked, but he didn't check it. "I won't put him through that," he said firmly. "Besides, without those orders it's still his word against Westman's."

"Well, then, we'll need another witness," Bensen concluded. "Who else is there?"

"Well, we've got character witnesses," Face offered.

"That won't count for much when your commanding officer is brought to testify against you."

"He's lyin'!" BA yelled, he pounded the table again as he rose to his feet. "We didn't do nothin'! We had orders, man!" From a few feet behind Bensen, Hannibal glared daggers at him. He caught the look, and sat back down reluctantly.

Face was studying Bensen carefully. "None of us have talked to General Westman since before all of this happened," he said. "But we all considered him a friend. In Hannibal's case, a close personal friend." He paused. "He may be the prosecution's witness, but you can still talk to him, right? Because... he's the best character witness you're going to find."

"Not if he believes that you robbed the Bank of Hanoi while you were supposed to be snatching an NVA colonel."

"Look." Hannibal turned and locked stares with Benson. "If you have any desire at all to win this case, I would suggest you find a copy of those orders. And if you can't, then you need to find someone else - someone not implicated in all this - who handled them. I don't care who that is. But you'd better find someone."

Bensen stared back. It was clear from the look in his eye that he had very little expectation of finding those orders or, for that matter, winning this case.

"You are our lawyer," Hannibal said flatly. "Figure out what the hell went wrong."

**Vietnam, 1968**

"So what went wrong?"

Cruiser brow furrowed. What the hell was Face talking about now? This had been one of the most successful missions he'd been on. A couple of minor injuries for what had to be at least two dozen kills... Hannibal's penchant for insane risks had its unique payoffs.

"What do you mean?"

"How'd you end up here?" Face finally clarified. He took a drink from his canteen, resting back against a fallen tree. "You can feel free to tell me to go to hell, but I'm curious. You were in college before you came here. Med school, no less. You enlisted as a private and requested Vietnam. Doesn't make sense."

Actually, it was pre-med. And how Face knew that, Cruiser wasn't entirely sure. Those events were kept close to his chest. Granted, Face didn't know any specifics; that seemed to be what he was fishing for. But he'd obviously done some digging. Cruiser stared at him for a moment before cutting his eyes away.

"Maybe Vietnam's what went right," he finally offered.

He looked back at Face, and their eyes locked briefly. Face smiled, and replied with a quiet, sincere, "I can understand that."

Cruiser looked away again, letting his eyes come to rest on the slowly dwindling fire. They'd have to put it out once it got dark enough to make it a beacon for the VC. But the fact that they'd made it to begin with spoke to the relative safety of this area. A recon sweep in South Vietnam instead of Laos or Cambodia had definite advantages. The biggest was that they were actually expected to be here. The simple fact that they were in radio contact with the base gave a lot of comfort.

The Yards had gone fishing this afternoon. With grenades. Cruiser could've killed them. Boston very nearly did, by reflex action alone. More importantly, every VC in a five mile radius knew exactly where to find them after the explosions. Hannibal thought it was funny as hell. Thankfully, he hadn't thought it was a good idea to stick around and see who showed up.

It was hard to say if the dinner was actually worth it. It tasted better than the C-rations, that was for damn sure. Full now, and tired, they were spread into a few small groups. Better if a single grenade couldn't take them all out in one shot. Though reclined, they were far from "relaxed." At any moment, the enemy could materialize seemingly out of nowhere and start shooting. They were all aware of it.

"So how'd you hook up with Hannibal?" Face asked quietly.

Cruiser chuckled at that. Everybody had a story about Hannibal and how they came to be on this team. There was a definite theme to those stories, too. His was no different. "Saw him in action."

"Yeah?"

Cruiser shrugged slightly, ignoring any feeling associated with the memories of dragging Hannibal, bleeding and protesting, into the chopper. He hadn't wanted a rescue. With his team slaughtered in front of him, all he'd wanted was to kill every one of the enemy that he could before he gave up his last breath.

Face looked across at Hannibal for a long moment, but kept his voice down. "He's out of his fucking mind." It wasn't an insult, just an observation. "I didn't realize just how much."

Cruiser laughed at the truth in that. "I'll take 'out of his mind' over a dough head paper pusher any day of the week."

"Yeah, that's what gets me about it."

"What?"

Face glanced back at Cruiser. "What's a Colonel doing in the field?"

Cruiser almost laughed. It didn't take much to see that Hannibal would never sit behind a desk. It'd be the end of the man. Even Cruiser could see that and he didn't pride himself on analysis to any degree. "I couldn't care less about the man's rank. I saw what I needed to a while ago."

"What was that?"

Cruiser eyed him for a moment. If he had doubts about Hannibal, that was normal. But it was also dangerous if he didn't figure out pretty quick where he stood. If those doubts made him hesitate at the wrong moment, it could mean their lives.

"Look," Cruiser said seriously. "Whatever you gotta do to make peace with it, do it. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe he's a damn good One-Zero. That's the bottom line."

Face looked steadily at Cruiser, and smirked slightly. "Bottom line for me is I'm here to kill and probably be killed. I don't much care who orders me to pull the trigger." He glanced away. "I'm just a little curious about this team. What it is, _why_ it is..."

"Doesn't matter. It just is."

Face's eyes were somehow cold when he looked back at Cruiser. "I don't need to know the gory details of everybody's story to guess that every one of us on this team _has_ one. Something that keeps us from being status quo. I'm just wondering if Hannibal's part of that or if he feeds on it. Makes a big difference."

"He's a Colonel in the field," Cruiser pointed out. That in and of itself should have answered that question, plain as day.

Face raised a brow. "And you think that's by choice?"

"Nobody gets assigned to this unit, Face. It's all by choice. It's just a matter of what the alternative was."

Face looked away. "Yeah, I heard the spiel. I had a choice between doing what I came here to do and spending a hell of a long time behind bars."

"Hard decision?" Cruiser taunted.

"Hardly." Face looked back towards Hannibal. "I wanna know what the hell his choice was. Because like you said, he's a colonel in the field."

Cruiser chuckled at that. It didn't matter to him in the least what Hannibal's choice had been. But if Face really needed to know, "Go ask him." Cruiser smiled widely. "If you ask him nicely enough, he might even tell you. But in the end, what the fuck difference does any of it make?"

Face watched him for a moment, then looked at Hannibal again. "It doesn't." He sighed deeply as he shifted and put his head back on the tree. "In the end, we're all here for the same thing and waiting for the same end. And there's no fucking glory in any of it."

"Well, there you have it, then."

Face gave a slight smile. "But I still want to know."


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

**Vietnam, 1968**

The rain on the tin roof was deafening. How could anyone sleep through that racket? Yet most of his team was already asleep. Only Face was awake, cleaning his CAR 15 by the light of a single candle. That gun had probably killed fifty VC in the past two days that they had been on patrol - from the ground and from the trees. The kid was a good shot. And he had nerve. Hannibal hoped he also had the sense and training to keep himself alive.

If not for the torrential downpour clanging on the roof above him, the atmosphere would have been perfect for sleeping. He was dry for the first time in days, and the rain cooled things slightly - not by much, but enough to make sleeping through the night possible. Hannibal was tired anyways, and there were only so many hours before dawn. Exhausted, but distracted, he stared up at the bunk above him with one arm under his head and a cigar between his teeth, listening to the rain.

"Hey, Hannibal?"

He closed his eyes, debating whether or not to answer. Face knew he was awake. There was no getting around that. But whether or not he wanted to talk was still a matter that had yet to be determined. Finally, with a sigh, he opened his eyes again and stared up at the bunk above him. "Yeah, kid?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

Uh oh.

"You can ask..."

The implication - that asking didn't necessarily mean he'd get an answer - made the young sergeant chuckle. As he snapped his gun back together, Hannibal watched him out of the corner of his eye. "What did you do before this?"

"Before what?"

"Before Vietnam." Face set the gun on the floor beside the bed - well within reach - and pulled his legs up onto his bunk, Indian-style. "You never talk about it."

"I was in Korea."

Face smirked. "I know that. But that was twenty years ago."

Hannibal frowned. What was he getting at?

"What about right before this? Where were you before SOG?"

"I was always with SOG."

"Uh huh." His voice rang with skepticism. "But SOG as an entity wasn't formed until January of 64. Before that, it was an Agency operation, not a military one. So unless your entire military career led you to work for a _civilian _government agency..."

Hannibal sighed audibly, and turned. Finished with the cigar, he put it out in the ashtray on the floor beside the bunk. "You're scrounging for something, Sergeant. What is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"What is it that you want to hear?"

Face shrugged. "I'm just curious."

"Like hell you are."

Now the skepticism had found its way into Hannibal's tone, and he realized that he was regarding Face as a threat. It wasn't intentional. In the two weeks since he'd recruited Face to his team, the man had proven himself both capable and trustworthy. He was good on the ground. Hannibal liked him. But liking him and possessing a willingness to play mind games were two different things.

Face's reputation preceded him - he was _good _at mind games. Hannibal couldn't make himself forget the way Face had handled him the very first time they spoke - withholding information until he had everything he wanted out of the conversation. Hannibal didn't find it offensive or threatening - but it did tell him a lot about the kind of person that the kid was. Face played his cards close to his chest. And knowing that made Hannibal inclined to play much the same way. Hannibal knew that game too...

"You can tell me to mind my own fucking business," Face shrugged again, "or you can answer me. I don't _need _to know; I just wonder."

"Why?"

Face studied him for a long moment. Hannibal could feel his eyes on him and after a long moment, he finally turned his head to meet his gaze. Face didn't look away. "The way you are out there," Face finally said, quietly. "You're different from any other One-Zero. I can't say why, but I know it's got something to do with what you were doing before this."

Hannibal smiled as he rested his head back and closed his eyes, offering nothing. After a long moment of silence, Face continued. "You're different and everyone knows it - including you. So don't act like you're surprised to hear me say it."

"I'm not surprised."

"You know that jungle," Face said, not hesitating. "You're comfortable in it. You don't let it scare you - even when it should. Two drops, Hannibal - I've done _two_ drops with you. And I'm already trying to figure out how the hell you've managed to stay alive so long."

Hannibal chuckled.

"No, I'm serious." Face sounded completely serious. "I've been on twelve drops - not including the two with you - and already people were looking at me like 'why aren't you dead yet?' How many drops have you done? Twenty? Twenty-five?"

"Hell, I don't know."

"Why aren't you dead yet? Especially with the kind of stunts you pull."

Still smiling, Hannibal withdrew his arm from under his head and turned onto his stomach. But he didn't answer. After a long pause, Face tried again. He wasn't going to give it up, Hannibal realized.

"You know, when I first started hearing about you, the first thing I heard was that you take insane risks."

"Do you believe that?"

Face laughed, without humor. "You tell us to hold our ground with fifty VC running straight at us? Or actually intended for the few of us to ambush god-knows-how-many of the enemy from up in the trees? Experience confirms the rumors."

"But?" There was clearly more, even though Face had paused.

"But instinct tells me you're not the type to risk anything - especially when you've managed to live this long. You're not rolling the dice; you _know _how Charlie is going to react. You might not know the ultimate outcome, but you know the enemy. How he plays. And maybe more than that, you know the playing field. You know how to use it the same damn way they do. You've got something - you've developed something - that the other guys don't have. That _I _don't have."

"You said yourself, I've had a lot of drops. You learn things."

"What did you do before 64, Hannibal?" The pointed question demanded an answer or a refusal. Hannibal smiled to himself. The kid knew how to get what he wanted, that was for damn sure. "What did you do before SOG?"

Hannibal sighed. "I can't talk about it, Sergeant."

"Oh, don't bullshit me," Face laughed. "My security clearance is as high as yours and it's about as high as it goes. So like I said, either tell me to fuck off or answer my question. But one way or another, I've gotta know."

"Why?"

This time, Face paused for a long time. Hannibal turned to look at him, studying his expression. Yes, Face knew how to play the game. And he should know that if he expected self-disclosure, he was ultimately going to have to give the same. After a long moment, he licked his lips and dropped his head forward, staring down at his lap.

"Because I could've been killed out there today."

No fear in his voice. Hannibal raised a brow. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" he asked. "You could be killed while you're sleeping tonight if a sapper comes through that window."

"Yeah, but while I'm here, my life is in my hands." He looked up again, meeting Hannibal's stare. "And while I'm out there, it's in yours."

Hannibal watched him for a long moment, reading the sincerity in his eyes. "Are you afraid of dying, Sergeant?" he asked pointedly.

"I'm afraid of dying needlessly," Face whispered back. "Because some cock sucking REMF has a plan for how we can win this goddamn war."

Hannibal smirked. "I'm not sure if I should be offended," he admitted.

"I want to trust you," Face continued. Neither his gaze, nor his voice wavered in the slightest. "But that felt a hell of a lot like a suicide mission."

"Commanders don't generally accompany their men into suicide missions."

"Maybe he didn't," Face answered quietly. He paused for a moment. "Maybe he sent you. And me."

"You mean General Westman."

"I don't know Westman. And what I've heard about him has ranged from one end of the spectrum to the other."

"Would it make you feel better to know that I would never question an order that came from him?"

"No."

"Then what are you looking for?"

"Whatever I think or feel about Westman is moot. I'm looking for a reason to not question _your _orders."

Hannibal studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed. He'd gotten enough - probably all he was going to get out of the kid. He needed to repay the self-disclosure if he had any hopes of gaining or maintaining his trust.

"Way back in the 1950s," Hannibal started, "we sent men over to help the French. Then the French pulled out on us. Left us holding the bag."

"I'm familiar with the history," Face said coldly.

"Are you also aware that we were operating in Laos and Cambodia before we were ever in Vietnam?"

Face didn't flinch, but he didn't confirm either. He hadn't known that part. Hannibal sighed as he relaxed back again, staring up at the bunk over his head for a long moment before he closed his eyes and breathed deep. "They were known as the Out-There-Boys. Because once they left the US, they were just 'out there' on TDY. Nobody knew where."

He paused for a long moment, closed his eyes, breathed deep. The memories flooded back, unbidden. "Imagine a recon drop that lasts six months at a time, Sergeant," he whispered. "Six months, not five days." He glanced over at Face, and saw him imagining it. "You live in the trees. You kill and eat whatever you have. You starve if you don't. You have nothing - your weapons run dry, you kill for new ones. Boots wear out, you take a new pair off of a dead enemy soldier." He sighed as he closed his eyes again, turning his head away. "You're always wet. Always. This monsoon rain starts and you won't be dry for months. Talk to Covey every night. It's the only contact with the outside world you have. For months. And months."

"What were you doing out there?"

"Everything that SOG does now." Hannibal paused. "Originally, we were supposed to be stopping arms shipments out of Russia and China. But we ended up doing everything - POW rescues, NVA Snatches, Bright Light... Just out there with a handful of Yards." His mind wandered, and he smiled faintly. "You got to know the Yards. Got to trust them. I'd take one of them over an ARVN soldier any day."

"Did you ever come into Vietnam?"

"I was in Vietnam once before 64. It was back when we..." He trailed off, and shook his head. "They sent me to raid a whorehouse. Kill the VC women." Very slowly, he turned his head. "You ever shoot a woman, Face? Look her in the eyes and pull the trigger? Blow her fucking head off right there?"

"Not yet," Face answered flatly.

"It's not pretty."

"What was your unit? Officially, I mean."

"Officially? I didn't have one."

Face laughed briefly. "What?"

"When I signed on, I took six kids straight outta jungle warfare school in Venezuela. Kids," he emphasized, "like you. I watched them die, one by one. And a whole lot of Yards. We didn't have a designation. We didn't have a unit or a clear chain of command. Just the Out-There-Boys."

"What about your CO? Where was he from?"

"My CO flew overhead in a B-52 every night. I never knew his name. I never knew his rank. I never knew a damn thing about him except that he was the only contact I had with anyone out there."

"Who did you report to? Ultimately?"

"General Westman."

"All of you? Directly to him?"

"We reported to Covey. I knew Westman from before the war. I asked for the assignment, and I reported to him when it was over." Hannibal sighed deeply. "You're right that SOG has its official beginnings in the Agency. They were sending teams - Ares, Atlas, Castor -"

"I've heard of them," Face interrupted, not wanting to get off on a tangent.

"But they were sending them into North Vietnam. Not Laos. Not Cambodia. That had been Westman's idea - along with General Wes Corbin."

"Never heard of him."

"You won't. He retired in 65 and ate a bullet three days later."

"Jesus..."

"Anyways, the two of them took the hundred or so of us, gave us a bunch of Yards, and dropped us in fucking Laos. And they got caught. By Kennedy."

"You mean they didn't get it approved?"

"No, and we knew it. They were as up front with us as they were with you. When they looked you in the eye and said 'give me your dog tags.'"

Face smirked.

"It was worth it to me," Hannibal said. "The potential for information gained was worth the risk - plain and simple."

"So what happened? I would think that getting caught with something like that would've been enough to get both of them into some pretty hot water."

Hannibal smiled. "It was. To Westman's benefit, it was 1961 and neither Laos nor Cambodia had declared their neutrality at that time. He sold the idea of SOG to the President - to the Pentagon. Introduced the concept as we know it. While I was in the jungle in Laos, they were forming a school at Fort Bragg for Special Forces. Westman pulled me out in 64 and showed me what they'd come up with for SOG. He wanted me and the rest of the Out-There-Boys who were still alive to break them in." He paused. "Did you ever wonder who taught the first SOG units, Face? The very first One-Zeroes?"

"I had instructors all the way back from WWII."

"Did they teach you the real important stuff? They teach you to keep a machete over your spine? How to wrap your grenades in tape? When leave a body rather than lose a life?"

"No."

"No, you learned that from experience. From your One-Zero. Who learned it from his." Hannibal sighed, and turned onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms. "Some of it was still forming - trial and error over the years. But a lot of it? A lot of it goes straight back to the Out-There-Boys."

Face didn't respond. Didn't press for any more. After a long moment of silence, Hannibal finally opened his eyes to study the younger man. "I've been in the jungle a long time, Face," he whispered. "A _long _time. Sometimes I'm not sure what I'll do when this war is finally over. Because I can't go back home. This place has made a killer out of me." He shut his eyes again, and took a deep, slow breath, pushing the memories back down into the safe places where he couldn't feel them and didn't have to acknowledge them. "There's so much blood on my hands..."

For a long moment, Face was quiet. Hannibal breathed deeply, and realized the lightheaded, disoriented feeling that warned him he was close to sleep. As the rain continued to pound the tin roof, he felt himself slipping away.

"Hannibal?"

He opened his eyes, but didn't bother to bring himself back to full, conscious awareness. He was tired. It was time to sleep.

"Thank you."

He smiled faintly, and closed his eyes again. "Go to sleep, kid," he whispered. "We drop again in the morning."


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Fort Bragg, January 1972**

The lack of enthusiasm - to say nothing of confidence - from the lawyer was anything but reassuring. He'd spent the better part of two hours running through reasons why it would be in their best interest to take a deal. And they'd spent that entire time reiterating that it would be in their best interest to have a lawyer who was more focused on finding their orders than getting them a good deal.

The conclusion in the end was pretty simple. This was open and shut for him. He was going to lose this case and as unfortunate as that was for him - not to mention them - he had resigned himself to it. That meant they didn't have a chance in hell of winning this. And that meant it was time for Hannibal to take matters into his own hands.

"You know," he started reflectively, "as thrilling as this trial will be and as confident as you are that you can get us off the hook..." He could feel his team's eyes following him, watching for any move, any sound, any signal that he needed something from them. He didn't. Yet. But he would. They would know that by his change in tone. As the naïve lawyer turned, studying him curiously, he smiled. "I think I'll pass on the idea of twenty to life in a military prison."

He moved suddenly. Instantly, Face was up and over the table and BA was around it. As Hannibal held one hand over the man's mouth, he put his other arm across his neck. Flailing arms and legs were subdued by BA and Face on either side, and after several long, tense moments, he finally went limp. Hannibal released his grip immediately, not wanting to kill him, and guided the unconscious man to the floor.

"Work fast," he whispered as Face picked up the pen on the table and broke the metal clip off of it, immediately going to work on his handcuffs. "Remember, there's guards right outside the door. BA, help me get his jacket off."

BA didn't ask why they needed the jacket. He just turned the man as Hannibal guided his arms out of the sleeves. By the time he was finished, Face had one of the cuffs undone. With full use of his hands, he reached for Hannibal's. "No, get BA," Hannibal directed. "And get by the door. Those guards could look in here any second."

They moved to either side of the door. BA and Hannibal stood ready as Face worked on the cuffs until finally, they unclasped from around BA's right wrist. Ducking under the small window in the door, Face moved to Hannibal. Holding his wrists in front of him, Hannibal kept his hands perfectly steady as Face twisted the tiny clip in the lock. Finally, he felt it click. At almost the same instant, the door opened, and two armed guards immediately rushed in.

Stupid. They didn't look first.

Hannibal and BA had a hold of their automatic weapons before they could even think to fire them. Face closed the door, leaving it open only a crack, then walked to the unconscious lawyer, checking his pockets. He found his wallet, and his ID badge, and set both aside as he began stripping the man's shirt.

Both guards were on the floor. Hannibal and BA were armed. None of them spoke as Hannibal and BA checked pockets, then began quickly removing their clothes. It took only seconds; this trick had been performed on dozens of NVA soldiers in the field, and hundreds of times in drills. Shoving his feet back into his own boots - hopefully no one would look at his feet - Face grabbed the wallet, badge, and clip, and rose to his feet, crossing to Hannibal and BA. A second later, head down, he followed them both into the hall.

Three steps to the left, and Hannibal reached up to pull the fire alarm. The race was on.

Moments later, Hannibal stood at the window in the front office, watching as the Jeep pulled up out front. "There's Lynch," he declared, glancing over his shoulder to see how the fire was coming along in the filing cabinet.

"You know, I'm not so sure we should be burning all this," Face said hesitantly, watching as the flames spread from one open cabinet to the next. It had been more difficult than expected to get them to catch, but now the smoke was pouring out the open window as fast as the cold, January air was pouring in. For such a small fire, it was an awful lot of smoke. A perfect distraction.

"These papers could be important, you know."

"Save it, Lieutenant," Hannibal ordered. "We've got bigger problems right now."

"Yeah," BA agreed. "Like gettin' outta here!"

Hannibal put his hand into the cooled ashes of the first papers to burn and smeared his face with the black soot. "Let's go. Heads down, out the back."

Covered in ash and smelling like smoke, the three of them kept their heads down as they stumbled out the door and down the hall, into the waiting arms of three MPs. Coughing hard, all three appeared unable to speak as they clung to the arms of one of the men.

"Get them out of here!"

The lone man rushed them to the steps. Once he was away from the others, safely out of range of the reinforcements, Hannibal suddenly straightened and put him up against the wall with the barrel of an M-16 under his chin. "Make a sound and you're dead."

BA grabbed the weapon off of the MP's shoulder, and then the pistol from his belt. Face took the pistol. If he had to play the part of the lawyer again - and he suspected he might - he couldn't very well do it with an assault rifle. Hannibal turned the MP and shoved him forward, down the stairs. "Move!" he ordered, pressing the barrel of the gun between the man's shoulder blades.

Out the back door, there was no one waiting. They'd all gathered at the front of the building, where the smoke was. "BA, Face, head for the wall," Hannibal ordered. "Stay on the path that's been plowed so they can't follow your footprints in the snow."

"Right," they answered in unison.

"As for you," he shoved the man. "Give Colonel Lynch our regards."

Once he was sure he was disarmed, Hannibal backed away to a safe distance, then turned to run after Face and BA. Only a few yards into his retreat, he turned to look back over his shoulder just as the man disappeared around the side of the building, running as fast as his legs would carry him. A quick, shrill whistle stopped BA and Face in their tracks, and they looked back. With a wave, Hannibal called them back.

They doubled back - on the same path - into the building and back up the first flight of stairs, following Hannibal's lead. At the top of the stairs, they heard the shouts from the men in the burned front room. Immediately and without thought, Hannibal turned into the first door he saw. It was a supply closet - a space that three grown men should not have been able to fit into. Locked in the dark with only the sound of their breathing and the heat of their bodies to take their minds off of the overpowering smell of ammonia and smoke, all three of them remained calm and silent, gripping their weapons tightly against them.

Seconds later, they heard the running footsteps of the MPs heading down to join the search.

"You know, for a minute there," Face whispered, "I really thought you were going to have us run that path all the way to the wall."

Hannibal smirked. "Now that would be silly. That path runs right through the center of the camp."

"Yeah. I know."

"What do we do now, Hannibal?" BA hissed. "They gonna call out the dogs. The dogs will find us."

"I know," Hannibal answered quietly. "But they'll be looking for us out there, not in here."

"Well, they'll come in here when they figure out we're not out there," Face hissed back. "So I sure as hell hope there's still more to this plan."

"There is. Come on."

They opened the door carefully, slowly. Face checked the hall before stepping out and holding out a hand towards BA. "I'll take that M-16 now," he offered, using his other hand to tuck his pistol into the back of his pants, under his jacket.

The entire camp was in chaos. Between the fire, the alarms, the escaped prisoners, the unconscious guards, and the confusion over what the hell had happened, nobody even seemed to notice as Hannibal led BA and Face right out the front door of the building. Most of the crowd was in the rear looking for the men who'd supposedly run to the wall. The others were all inside with the fire, and only a few men were even present to notice as BA jumped into the driver's seat of Colonel Lynch's Jeep and started it up. Face vaulted over the passenger seat and into the back, and Hannibal moved into the passenger seat just as those few men suddenly realized what they were witnessing.

As they reached for weapons, Hannibal hung out the open door as he fired a spray of bullets into the snow just a few feet in front of them. "I wouldn't, if I were you." He smirked at the startled look on their faces. BA pulled away.

Hannibal ducked back inside and unfastened the clips that hooked in above the windshield. "Face, get those windows out and unhook the back," he ordered quickly. "I want this top off."

Face didn't ask why. He reached into the front seat and grabbed the knife off BA's side - on the belt he'd taken from the MP. "Do you mind?" he smiled politely as BA caught his eye in the rearview mirror. He didn't wait for an answer.

A moment later, he'd slit the fabric on both sides enough to pull it from the canvas top. He used the knife to pry the canvas from where it hooked into the back - it was surprisingly difficult to do from the inside - and the top finally loosened. From the front seat, Hannibal was able to finish unlatching it and throw it back, just in time to see that they were being followed.

Face saw it too. "We got company."

"I can't go no faster, man!" BA cried. "It's too slick!"

The glassy, icy surface of the road they'd taken off down, was dangerous - four wheel drive or no. Luckily, it was also dangerous for the vehicles following them. They had a good head start - but there was no way they'd make it to the gate without getting cut off. And the guards at the gate wouldn't let them pass without a firefight.

"Get off the road," Hannibal ordered calmly as he sat down and set the M-16 in his lap.

"Which way?" BA yelled back. He was not as calm.

Just a quick glance up, and Hannibal pointed in the general direction of north. "That way."

He held the bar overhead as they swerved off the road and into four inches of snow. Then, as they bumped and bounced over the uneven terrain - under the snow was an open field if Hannibal remembered correctly - he opened the glove box. The tires had more to grip here, and only the Jeeps behind them would dare to follow, not the patrol cars that the MPs drove.

BA flickered a few nervous glances in his direction as he unfolded a small map of the base. "Okay, so we should be right about..." He reached up and held tightly to the bar again as one particularly impressive rise nearly threw all three of them from the Jeep. "Right about here," he finished, as if the interruption hardly fazed him. "Lieutenant?" The calm in his voice was uncanny, especially against the background of sirens and alarms.

"Yeah?" Face called back from behind him.

"How far behind us are they?"

"Uh... ah... they're... a ways?"

"A ways?" Hannibal asked.

"A hundred yards or so."

"BA slow down a little."

"Slow down?" BA cried. "What for?"

"In the best interest of our tires," Hannibal answered simply. "And wheel axle. Plus you're about to run us right into a ravine if you don't change course ninety degrees."

BA slowed enough to turn the Jeep without rolling it. Heading west now, it wasn't long before they could see the wall. But before they reached it, they would have to get past the three Jeeps full of armed MPs that were heading right for them.

"What do we do, Hannibal?" BA yelled. But he wasn't panicking. Hannibal was glad for that.

"Go around them. Face!"

"Colonel!"

"Up and at 'em!"

Hannibal tucked the map into his pocket - a souvenir from his brief stay at Ft. Bragg - and used the bar to pull himself up. The wind hit his face hard - bitter cold and blinding. "Tires!" he yelled, a simple order at the lieutenant who was already standing beside him. Face had moved to the front of the vehicle, under the bar of the roll cage that separated the two sections. His only balance was from the foot he had hooked under the driver's seat as he braced the M-16 on the windshield beside Hannibal's.

They both sprayed the ground in front of them with practiced, three second bursts. The bullets hit the snow, they hit the grills, and they finally hit the tires of two of the Jeeps at almost the same time. One of them lurched, hit a rock, and careened out of control, smashing into the one they hadn't hit and knocking it off course. The other hit a ditch, and without the tires to buffer the impact, it lurched forward and rolled end over end.

"Hang on!" BA yelled.

Hannibal held the roll cage as BA swerved, going around the mess of vehicles, skidding and throwing up a cloud of snow in front of them. Face held onto him. They made it all the way around.

"What now?" Face asked as he looked back at the soldiers stumbling out of the wreckage.

"The wall's right there," Hannibal gestured, sitting back down.

Face crouched. "Yeah. And unless you're thinking that this Jeep is going to plow through six inches of cement, we need a gate."

"Or we go over the top."

Face stared at him.

Seconds later, BA pulled up alongside the wall. Without conversation, they all stripped their shirts - and Face's jacket - and threw them up over the razor wire before climbing up onto the bar of the jeep and grabbing on. The fabric helped, but the blades still cut into Hannibal's hands as he went first - up and over. He ignored the pain, and the blood, as he dropped into the snow on the other side and looked up. He gave a short whistle - the signal for all clear - and seconds later, BA dropped beside him, followed by Face.

"They're right behind us," Face informed them as he regained his balance. "Fuck! It's cold!" He looked up at the shirts that were hung up on the razor wire.

"They'll be coming around from the gate, too," Hannibal said quickly. "Let's go!"


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**Vietnam, 1968**

The exhaustion was expected. It was just a standard recon sweep, four nights, never more than a few miles from the base. A warm up. One that Hannibal had made rather exciting, but still a warm up. That didn't mean Face wasn't ready to fall down dead when he walked back through the gate in the early morning hours of... whatever day it was. He barely made it to the team room before he was facedown, dead asleep on the wooden bunk.

He woke up to someone shaking him, and was instantly alert, reaching for the pistol under his pillow. It wasn't there. It was still on his belt. Confused and disoriented, he realized he didn't need it before he realized where it was.

Cruiser chuckled. "Hey guess what this is," he said, crouched down beside the bunk and eye to eye with Face.

Face blinked a few times and tried to get his eyes to come into focus on the papers Cruiser was holding up. "Looks like a pass."

"To Da Nang."

"Nice." Face yawned. "How the fuck are we gonna get to Da Nang?"

"Supply run is coming in thirty minutes. They just called in."

Face stared for a moment, then slowly put the words together. His brain was coming back online, slow but sure. "What time is it?"

"Almost six."

Another yawn, and Face put his feet on the floor. "Anyone else going?"

"Indigo, but he won't stick around. He more or less stays to himself."

"What about Boston?"

Cruiser laughed. "You kidding?"

Face shrugged. That answered that question well enough.

There was no need to change. No blood on his fatigues and the others he had weren't any cleaner. Besides, he was already dressed. It was enough just to wash his face and brush his teeth and hair. It took him a little longer to conceal his weapons. They weren't supposed to carry them in the cities. Face couldn't have gone ten minutes in this country unarmed if he'd wanted to. It made him paranoid and jumpy about every little thing that moved. He'd risk the court martial before he'd risk being caught unprepared if some VC terrorist opened fire in a crowded marketplace.

He was awake and alert by the time the chopper arrived, but the ride to Da Nang - with a number of stops along the way to finish the supply run - saw him sitting with his head back against the inside wall of the chopper. He dozed lightly - one might even guess comfortably - until they touched down. Then he thanked the pilot with a smile and followed Cruiser to the motor pool.

"So do you have a particular destination in mind?"

Cruiser stretched. "Not in the least."

"You know about the club on the north side of town, right?" Face asked. "Closest you'll find to home, this side of the Pacific. Ever been there?"

"Nope, but I'm not picky. Give me some booze and whores and I'm good to go. Anything past that's a bonus."

Face chuckled. "Plenty of that."

The ride was uneventful. Their arrival at their destination - a single, large building that had once been a hotel and had since been turned into something entirely other - was uneventful. Face smiled as he looked over the new additions that had been haphazardly constructed in his absence. The place was American born and bred, and continued to exist on the basis of the fact that any Vietnamese who came within a hundred yards was either escorted, lived and worked there, or was shot after a single warning.

It wasn't entirely legal - what the hell was? - but so far, the brass had made the corporate decision to look the other way. It existed now with swimming pools, tennis courts, and a bar that was well stocked with American beer and top shelf liquor. The place could afford it. It was really its own little self-sustaining community. And it was impressive. There was no place like it anywhere else in Vietnam.

"Drinks are on me."

Face grinned at Cruiser's expression - clearly impressed - and flashed a smile at the two men who eyed them up and down as they got out of the jeep. The scrutinizing looks of both men quickly turned to answering smiles, and Face stopped for just a few seconds to shake hands on the way inside. He knew them. They knew him. This place was probably the closest thing Face had ever had to a "home." It was a home he'd created.

"Where the hell have I been all this time?" Cruiser said to himself as he followed Face into the air conditioning. "You come here often?"

"Anytime I'm within range of Da Nang, yeah." He walked to the bar, and waved to the young Vietnamese bartender. "It beats the whorehouses and shitty beer in town."

He exchanged greetings with the man at the bar in fluent French, and a moment later, there was a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses, and two beers in front of them. "Shit, man, that's _real _beer."

Face smiled as he poured the first shot. "And real Patron." He set the bottle down and glanced at Cruiser, raising his glass. "Actually, this place was part of what got me into trouble. I'm surprised they didn't make any effort to shut it down."

Cruiser raised his glass. "Small favors, right?" He threw the drink back and reached over to pour another. "God damn. It's been a while since I had a real drink."

Face swallowed the shot, chased it with cold Budweiser, and smiled as he leaned on his elbows on the bar.

"You know, that partial list that got you in trouble keeps getting longer," Cruiser pointed out.

"I call it what it is. The whores here are clean and paid to _stay_ that way, over and above what the guys drop on them." He watched his glass as he traced his index finger around the rim of the glass. "That gets to be a problem when their payroll can get traced back to Americans. Even more of a problem when those Americans gotta explain where the money came from. And a lot of people wanted to know."

"So they get a fall guy for the paperwork and look the other way," Cruiser assumed.

"If they wanted to shut this place down, they could do it in a heartbeat. Even with all the safeguards in place. They don't even need a fall guy."

Cruiser tossed the second shot back and cracked open the beer. "So where'd the drugs come into play?"

"Money's got to come from somewhere. And it's all part of recreation."

"You still making money off of it? Or did the court martial pretty much take care of the profit margin?"

Face laughed, and glanced over at him. "You think I was lining my pockets with it?"

Cruiser raised a brow. "Weren't you?"

Face was amused by the thought. With a grin, he grabbed the bottle of tequila off the bar and held it up by the neck. "You know how much this bottle costs? After basic transport fees to get it from here to there, paying someone for the risk to get it here and take it undetected through customs, bribes for customs to make sure that happens, paying someone _else _to get it off the plane and out to this club, more bribes on hand for anyone who might think to check what's being transported..."

He set the bottle down again as he trailed off, then continued on a different note. "And that's not including what it costs just for the basics to keep this place running. That bartender," he pointed, "is paid almost as well as I am, and housed here, and never has a fucking care in the world for who's paying his rent. Because money talks, and as long as they stay well supplied with it, we don't have problems with the VC here. So all in all, that bottle of tequila right there is worth about a month's work of active duty pay, at least. You couldn't afford it if I - or anyone else here - was lining my pockets."

Cruiser nodded slowly as he considered that. "So why do it?"

Face stared at him for a moment, then looked away again, pouring another shot of tequila. "Because it's the only fucking thing worth living for."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, man." Cruiser finished the beer before looking at Face again, unaffected by the cold tone. "You put your ass on the line for what? Thrills of pulling one over? Knowing you're good enough to do it and get away with it?"

Face looked away.

Cruiser's stare hardened. "Or is it more about providing an oasis for everyone you can't save in-country?"

"It wasn't about anyone else. _I _wanted this. If other people benefit from it, that's just fine by me. But I didn't do it for anyone but me.

"Good." Cruiser laughed and threw back another mouthful of tequila. He was definitely starting to show the effects of the alcohol. "'Cause that's the only thing worth doin' it for."

**Near Fort Bragg, 1972**

"Got any idea where we're headed?" Face asked, a step behind Hannibal as they trudged through the four inches of snow, past the dormant, barren branches of trees and bushes. It was the polar opposite of the Vietnam jungle. But somehow it still seemed familiar.

The sun had set. They'd stopped long enough to kill, prepare, and cook a rabbit on a small fire. The whole thing had taken less than an hour before they'd reluctantly left the warmth of the fire. Now, they were eating as they walked. They'd probably gone ten clicks - through the snow and without even shirts to protect them from the cold. It was January. It was freezing.

They had to keep moving; if their body temperature cooled much more, they would probably die out here. As it was, Hannibal could already feel frostbite in his fingers, and his feet had numbed long ago. But if they stopped to build another fire, they ran the risk of being caught. Besides, a fire wouldn't help all that much if they didn't find shelter first.

"We're headed north," Hannibal finally answered.

"Right," Face managed. His teeth were chattering, audibly. "You know, given the weather? I think I'd rather be heading south. Warm beaches, nice resort hotels..."

"That's it, Face," Hannibal grinned, pushing aside a tree branch at eye level and holding it so that it didn't hit the men behind him. "Keep thinking warm thoughts."

"You just keep walkin'," BA ordered. "Soon as that sun comes up, they'll be able to follow our footprints."

Hannibal was shivering. It was sapping the energy out of his exhausted, abused body. But he didn't complain. There were only two options: keep moving or lie down and die. "You know, it's strange to be more concerned about the elements than what might be lurking in the trees," Face said. "I don't know which is worse."

Hannibal glanced down at the M-16 that he was hugging against him, arms crossed over his chest. It had taken him almost two hours of holding it at port arms before he'd finally realized he didn't need to do that here.

"You can at least shoot at Charlie," Face continued. "Not a whole lot you can do about the weather."

"At least there's no wind," Hannibal called back.

"Yeah, at least."

Hannibal held his hands over his mouth and breathed on them, trying to coax some feeling back into his fingers. His chest and arms burned. Hypothermia. All at once, the thought occurred to him: he really _could _die out here. And after all of this, it just seemed so goddamn anti-climactic...


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**1972**

Just a few more steps. But Hannibal had been telling himself that for hours now, and it was starting to lose its effectiveness. Just a few more steps and then just a few more. And ultimately, it just led to more footprints in the snow.

It was funny the way that pain altered one's state of mind - state of consciousness. He was aware of the world around him only insofar as to know that it was cold and wet... and empty. An hour or so ago, Face had started singing under his breath. Already growing delirious, more and more confused, Hannibal had joined him. Funny, the song that came to mind most readily.

"Hey Blue, you're a good dog you..."

Maybe it was their mind's subconscious way of trying to protect those things that were most important - rehearse them over and over so that they wouldn't be forgotten. Maybe it was just a song that they all knew. Or maybe it was the fact that the song was so closely associated with dead soldiers - which they were about to be if they didn't find shelter pretty soon.

The sun had set, taking with it what little warmth it had provided. An icy breeze cut through the trees, and cut Hannibal right to the bone. He didn't feel cold, though he was shaking violently. Hypothermia was setting in. If they didn't find shelter, they _were _going to die out here. But there was no shelter. And there was no place to _make _shelter. All they could do was keep walking. Keep singing. Keep praying.

"Dug his grave with a silver spade... Lowered him down with links of chain..."

Hannibal let his eyes close, just for a moment. He was so tired. Had he _ever _been so tired? Years and years in the jungle, and it had never crossed his mind once to lie down and die. But he could feel his will to live slipping through his frozen fingers. Confused and disoriented, he put one foot in front of the other and kept walking. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. Over and over in his mind, confused memories played back in no particular order. A flash from his childhood, from his first day at West Point, from that hot day in Korea when he first saw a man die. The images melted one into the next, jumbled and incoherent in his mind.

"Hannibal stop..."

He stopped. Confused, he looked back over his shoulder in time to see Face fall forward, onto his knees.

"Stop..."

Not good. Hannibal turned back. The young Lieutenant was shaking violently, head down and eyes closed. He swayed, unsteady, letting the weapon fall off of his shoulder and into the snow. "I can't do this," he gasped. "I can't walk anymore."

Something inside of Hannibal - something he could not explain, rose up at the sight of the younger man embracing death. Though he was only a few steps away from that resolution himself, he knew that he would not - _could _not - simply let him go. He'd seen men die - too many to count. He'd even held them while they slipped away. But Face would not be one of those men. Hannibal wouldn't allow it.

"Get up, Lieutenant," he ordered.

Face opened his eyes, raised his head. "I can't," he gasped, shaking his head as his eyes rolled back. "I can't do this. I..."

He fell, collapsing forward where Hannibal caught him. Unconscious - or worse - Hannibal didn't know. He didn't care, either. He would carry him until his own strength gave out and die with him. But he'd be damned if he would leave him here.

"Hannibal!" BA's voice was startling. Still trying to hold Face up and out of the snow, Hannibal turned and looked over his shoulder. "There's a cabin up ahead!" BA called. "Looks like it's empty!"  
>"Good!" Was it good? What did that mean? What was a cabin and what was it doing in the middle of the woods? A flicker of coherence, and Hannibal realized what he had just heard. A cabin. Shelter. Shit, maybe they actually had a chance of living through this. "Get over here and help me carry him!"<p>

Face was unresponsive as they lifted him, holding his arms across their shoulders. Hannibal looked around quickly as they stumbled into the small clearing and the structure, silhouetted by the moon. There were no tire tracks, and snow covered the path that led off to the right - probably a driveway. No one was here.

The hope of rest and warmth gave Hannibal strength he didn't know he had, and he moved quickly up the front steps, onto the porch. Realizing he had nothing with which to unlock the door, he simply stood back and let BA kick it in, then stumbled into the room that was just as cold as outside. A thick layer of dust over the furniture told them that no one had been here in years.

Hannibal looked immediately at BA. "Make a fire," he ordered quickly.

"Right!" BA was already moving.

Hannibal dragged the unconscious lieutenant to the sofa, and deposited him there. Only then did he check for a pulse. It was there. It was weak. Fueled by adrenaline but still shaking violently himself, Hannibal rose to his feet, dragged a chair in front of the door to keep it closed, and headed into the bedroom. He found blankets on the bed, and more in the closet. But they wouldn't help if he couldn't get Face's body to actually start generating heat again.

Back in the main room, BA had logs stacked for a fire. "Make it quick and make it hot," Hannibal ordered. "Paper, cloth, whatever we've got in here." He dropped the blankets unceremoniously on top of Face as a stack of newspapers caught his eye. "Here." He took the whole pile to BA.

With shaking hands, BA started the fire. The brittle, old papers torched quickly, and the two of them dragged Face closer to the fire. They stripped him of the cold, wet clothes, and as BA fed the fire, Hannibal piled blankets on top of him. Then he stood, and stumbled, one foot in front of the other, into the kitchen.

The cupboards held no food, but there were dishes, and a few pots. Hannibal grabbed the largest one and took it outside, collecting the undisturbed snow, careful not to scrape the ground. By the time he'd returned, BA was running out of paper to burn.

"Put the logs on," Hannibal said, coming close and collapsing near the fire.

He was still shaking, and as the adrenaline wore off, the exhaustion was setting in. He set the pot next to the fire and used numb fingers to untie his boots. As he stripped the wet clothes, he grabbed one of the blankets from Face and wrapped it around himself. He thought better of it quickly, and instead lay down on the hard floor - next to Face and under the pile of blankets. Face was finally beginning to warm again. Hannibal was still shaking.

For the first time, it occurred to him to check on BA. "Are you okay?" he asked, opening his eyes to look up at him. BA was shivering, too. But he nodded, holding his hands out to the fire.

"Lay down." Hannibal's thoughts were muddled. The adrenaline was fading fast into an exhausted confusion. "Body heat."

The last thing he was aware of was the shift in the blankets as BA lay down on the other side of Face, pressing in close to distance himself a few inches from the fire.

**Vietnam, 1968**

Ann had just finished counting down the register in the little shop - set out of the way, in the back of the club - when she looked up and saw the familiar man standing in the doorway, watching her. It only took her a second to recognize him, and she smiled broadly. "Tem! Is good see you!"

Face smiled broadly before taking a few steps over to her. She spoke fluent French, which enabled easy conversation with her. But she was clearly proud of the improvement on her English. "Good to see you too, Ann. How have you been?"

She dropped her eyes shyly, a few loose strands of black hair falling into her eyes. "I very good." She looked up at him again with innocent curiosity. "I not see you long time. Where you go?"

"I got transferred to a different unit. They keep us pretty busy." He brushed the hair out of her eyes as his tone dropped a bit. "I came back first chance I got."

She smiled as she looked up at him, switching to her more comfortable language. "[Well, probably not the _first_ chance. You've never been away so long before. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.]"

She pouted slightly. It was a cute look for her. For his part, his smile dripped with charm. "[I would never avoid you.]" He leaned in to whisper in her ear, his voice soft and sultry. "[I like you too much for that.]"

She blushed, and lowered her eyes as he pulled back until his lips were barely out of contact with hers. He could feel her breath on his lips as he wetted them with his tongue and waited there to see how she'd respond.

"[We should go someplace more private,]" she whispered.

He smiled knowingly and pulled away from her, respecting her usual wish for discretion. From what he understood, her father - who was off fighting the war, though for which side, Face neither knew nor cared - wouldn't like it if he knew an American was standing this close to her.

Her residence - somewhere between a dorm room and a studio apartment - was on the second floor, where all of the employees lived. He followed her silently. He'd been there before, and nothing had changed since last time. She let him in, closed the door behind him, and smiled as she stood against it, blushing again as he raised a hand to brush her hair out of her face again.

Out of the public eye - or the chance of it - she responded just the way he'd known she would, nuzzling against his hand. "[I missed you, Tem.]"

He smiled at the touch. It was warm and welcome and, most importantly, familiar. His fingers traced along her jaw line as he tipped her chin up and touched his lips to hers. She answered him with kiss that was as soft and delicate as she was, touching his chest lightly as if she were afraid he might not be real, and would blow away if she pressed too hard. It wasn't hesitant, not unsure. Just every bit as gentle as she was by nature.

He let the kiss close on it own, his lips still playing against hers as he ran his hands down her arms. "[I missed you, too,]" he whispered, smiling as he took a step into the room, towards the bed.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**1972**

Face came awake slowly. Oh God, he hurt. But he was warm. He was also cramped - as if he hadn't moved in hours. As he gradually found his way back to consciousness, he realized that he was surrounded on either side. He opened his eyes slowly, and blinked a few times. BA was in front of him, facing the fire that was burning steadily in the fireplace, only a few feet away. That meant that Hannibal was behind him. Where were they?

He closed his eyes again.

Several full minutes later, he opened them again and looked around. It was a cabin. He was lying on the floor. Every muscle, every bone, every joint in his body hurt. He shifted, trying to take the pressure off of his shoulder. It didn't work. What the hell was he doing on the floor of a cabin? The memories came back slowly. A cold walk in the snow, first. Then Fort Bragg. Then the court martial - the reasons behind all of this. Face yawned as he looked to the window. What the hell time was it?

There was a metal pot near the fire, and a coffee mug next to it. Carefully - trying not to disturb the sleeping figures on either side of him, he slid out from under the blankets. The cold hit him hard, and he shuddered as he grabbed the top blanket and wrapped it around himself.

Hannibal was facing the room, cradling an M-16. Face was surprised that he hadn't woken up with the shifting and maneuvering it had taken to get out from under the blankets. BA opened his eyes briefly, but quickly shut them again. Face didn't say a word.

Slowly, Face reached for the mug and dipped it into the water. It was warm against his lips, and all the way into his chest. He took a moment to move his fingers and toes. His boots and socks were near the fire beside BA's and Hannibal's. His pants were on the floor - still wet and cold. He huddled in the blanket. He had no desire to get dressed right now. At least, not in that.

He turned his head and looked to the window. It was still dark, but no longer the middle of the night. Probably just before dawn. Reluctant to move away from the heat, Face took the blanket with him as he stood.

The quiet shuffling alerted Hannibal, and he was awake instantly, weapon ready. "It's okay," Face whispered, looking down at him. "Just me."

Hannibal relaxed the gun, and rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"I don't know. Just relax. I'll find out."

Hannibal closed his eyes again. Clutching the warm blanket tightly around him, Face walked to the window, barefoot on the cold floor. He'd regained feeling in his feet; that was a good sign. The sun wasn't up yet, but the sky was lighter. He returned to Hannibal. "We got maybe thirty minutes before dawn."

Hannibal opened his eyes again. "We should get going then."

"Any chance there's some clothes here?" Face asked. "Maybe even jackets?"

"Yeah." Hannibal sat up, throwing the blankets onto BA before rising to his feet. Like Face, he took the top one with him for warmth. "In the bedroom closet."

Face cast a lingering look at BA, surprised he hadn't made any effort to communicate when he heard them talking. "Let him sleep," Hannibal whispered. "He's been tending that fire all night."

Face knelt and picked up his pair of the black boots. The socks draped over the front of them were dry, and he slid them on before he put the damp boots on. At least they were warm, if not dry. Still wrapped in the blanket, he followed Hannibal into the cold bedroom.

"Jesus, it's freezing," Face whispered, already shivering. "Why couldn't we have been arrested in June or something?"

"It's not really that cold," Hannibal answered.

Face cast him a sarcastic look. "Hannibal, there's six inches of snow outside."

"Temperature in here is almost fifty degrees."

"How the hell do you know that?"

He gestured to a small figurine on the dresser, and Face walked to it. It was a thermometer - ceramic, with a hummingbird on it and red mercury that lingered near the fifty degree mark. "I think it's broken," he mumbled as he turned away, not willing to stretch his arms out of the warm blankets to check. "It's too damn cold to be fifty degrees."

"You're just not used to it anymore."

"And you are?"

Hannibal didn't answer.

With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Face took a few steps closer, looking over Hannibal's shoulder as he rummaged through the clothes in the closet. "Hey, Colonel, why exactly are we going north?" he asked. "If I remember correctly, there's nothing but wilderness up here. And a few little towns."

"That's the idea."

"Why not head for the interstate?" He stood back again, watching in the dim light as Hannibal grabbed a few flannel shirts off of the rack. "If we'd done that to begin with, we could've gotten a vehicle."

"The moment we left that camp, they probably put an APB out on all of us," Hannibal said. "Besides," he glanced at the tired face of the young lieutenant, "would you pick up three half-dressed men with razor cuts on their palms near a military prison? Would you even slow down?"

Face looked down at his hands. He'd almost forgotten about the cuts. The cold had numbed him to the pain, and by now, they had closed up with weak scabs that would probably get infected. He'd worry about that later. "So what's your plan?" he asked quietly. "The dogs will follow us this far at least. And if you're right about the APB, we'll never get out of the county."

"Not in a vehicle," Hannibal agreed.

Face stared at him. "You're planning on walking?"

"I'm not planning on getting caught at a roadblock, if that's what you're asking."

"No, that wasn't exactly what I was asking."

Hannibal turned and looked at him.

Face cleared his throat. "I was asking if you plan for us to walk through the snow until we all fall down dead," he clarified.

"You can stay here if you'd like," Hannibal answered, throwing the shirts onto the bed before turning back to the closet. "I'm sure Colonel Lynch would be happy to give you a ride back to the base."

"Shit..." Face sighed deeply as he leaned against the wall, clutching the blanket more tightly around him. "I'm not staying here. Not after all this."

"You know, it's funny," Hannibal said, pulling sweatshirts from the closet and tossing them onto the bed, "the things that men are willing to push the levels of their endurance to accomplish."

Face studied him. That sounded deep and introspective, even for Hannibal. Maybe even especially for Hannibal. "What do you mean?"

"You'd rather keep walking - maybe die of hypothermia and exhaustion - than face a court martial."

"So would you," Face pointed out.

"Before this," Hannibal continued, ignoring him, "you kept walking through 120 degrees in a sweltering jungle with men in camouflage shooting at you rather than sit at the base and feel like you didn't accomplish anything. And before that," he tossed a pair of pants at Face, who caught them as they hit his chest, "you trudged through fifty miles of swampland - and would've gone another twenty - just for the chance to walk through that jungle, and to go on this walk through the snow."

"Hindsight's always 20/20," Face answered emotionlessly.

Hannibal chuckled. "That phrase only works if you _wouldn't_ be willing to do it all over again. Will those pants fit?"

Face checked the tag. "Probably." He glanced back up. "And as for doing it all over again... ask me when we get on the other side of this long walk. If I'm still alive."

Hannibal only laughed.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Lisa: Very much aware of what you pointed out and would like to discuss further with you. I strive for accuracy and appreciate the feedback. Indeed, an E-8 would normally have his own team. However, an O-6 would in NO case EVER be leading a team in the field, and it's canon that he does. So I have no problem suspending disbelief on that. Re: Face as an E-8, if you notice, the charges against Face allow for an awful lot of leeway in just who/what he was REALLY and what he claimed to be. Fraudulent enlistment wasn't his only crime. His records are all kinds of screwed up and forged - and in some cases stupidly so. It's why he got caught. Screencap in the pilot puts his date of birth in 1936 on his military records. The math on what he was claiming to be is... impressive. Almost as impressive as the level of cockiness it would've taken to REALLY believe he could pull it off. Face was not a lieutenant (O-2; there was no O-1 in Special Forces) until he went to OCS, since he most certainly did not go to Academy. In VN, it was not uncommon for enlisted to go to OCS because they were STARVING for officers. (It may well be different now; I don't know.) Westman, on the other hand, DID go to Academy, (West Point, more than likely - he is modeled after Gen. Westmoreland) and was at no time a drill sergeant though he might have sounded a lot like one. Westman, given his character, has no issue with telling HANNIBAL to sit his ass down if the situation calls for it. Face was about to be completely stripped of rank and thrown into Leavenworth. He could sit his ass down. :-P Please sign your review or pm me to discuss more.

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**Vietnam, 1968**

Behind the bar and down the narrow hallway that no one went down, there was a door. Through that door, there was a desk that no one really claimed - at least not on a daily basis. But Face knew it would be occupied now. He'd seen Brian Alex in the bar before he'd stepped away, leaving Cruiser to his fun as he went in search of "Ann." Now Cruiser was gone, and so was Alex. He could guess where either of them were.

He didn't bother knocking on the door, just opened it and quietly stepped inside with a smile, closing it behind him. Alex was leaning with his hip against the desk, lit cigarette in his hand. He smiled as he caught a look at Face, but that didn't mean a damn thing. Alex was just like any of his other business associates. They had no problem gutting people with a smile.

"Peck."

"Alex."

"Where in the hell have you been?"

He expression was unreadable, but Face had worked with him long enough to know Alex always knew more then he let on. And judging by the way his jaw twitched when he took a slow drag on his smoke, he was pissed. Face met his smile, calm and casual.

"I had a little run in with the military's code of conduct. Sorry I've been out of touch, it was a bit difficult to get to a phone."

"So I heard." Alex tapped his ashes on the floor and gave a grim smile. On to business, then. Face could feel the sudden shift. Alex didn't waste time with pleasantries. He never had.

"While you were sweet talking your way out of the stockade, I've been having to explain to our comrades why I haven't been able to pick up the next shipment. And you know how much they like excuses and delays."

"Yeah, I'm real sorry about that."

Alex inhaled and blew the smoke out of his nostrils in a long stream, like a dragon. "Christ, I've got so much smack backed up in the warehouses, we could get all of fucking Vietnam real high for a week."

Face nodded slowly, and lowered his head for a moment, considering his words carefully. He put his hands in his pockets as he looked up again. "I'm not here to make deliveries, Alex."

Alex didn't move for a few seconds, he just stared at Face, trying to read him. Finally, he tossed his smoke to the ground and crushed it under his boot. "That's a good one, Peck."

"It's a sincere one," Face corrected.

Alex stood up straight, putting his hands at his side. "Alright, fine. You're a bright kid. You know you've got me over a bit of a barrel here, so you're angling for a bigger cut. Smart. Dangerous, but smart. You got balls, I'll give you that. And five percent more of the profits on this shipment."

"I don't want a bigger cut," Face said flatly. "I want out."

Alex's face held no hint of a smile. "You're pushin' my patience a little too far."

"Well, let me rephrase that." Face took a slow breath. "I'm getting out. You have a nice little operation here that's all set up for you. Do with it whatever you want. You shouldn't have too hard of a time getting someone to run the shipments for you if the money's good enough."

As Alex stared in shock, Face withdrew a folded piece of paper and held it out in front of him, arm fully extended. "These are the names of my contacts. You can tell them I'm dead. And that whoever you're getting to replace me is in charge now. Unless you want to do it yourself. In any case, the business is yours - signed, sealed and delivered."

Alex reached out slowly and took the paper from him, just barely glancing at it before folding it and putting it in his chest pocket. "What do you think this is? Some sort of lunch date that you can just walk away from?"

"I think this is a very lucrative and powerful operation that you and I put together from scratch. And now it belongs entirely to you."

"What in the hell makes you think you can take all your information walk out without serious consequences?"

"I got _caught_, Alex," Face said coldly. "I'm a liability if I _stay_. You want this operation to stay running, you need to realize that my CO is breathing down my neck and I'll be up against a court martial if I step out of line. This isn't a choice on my part, it's a requirement. If you want to keep me out of a military court, you'll look away and let me walk. And if you don't, I'm not going to sell you out to that court. But they _will _track my contacts. And you'll lose a hell of a lot of business. I don't see how that helps either of us."

Alex leaned back on the corner of the desk, arms crossed. "We both know a court martial is the least of your worries if you try and turn your back and pretend like your something your not."

Face's eyes narrowed. "You have no idea what I am."

"You're a goddamn thief and a drug runner. And you ain't gonna change that."

"Maybe not. But that's my problem, not yours."

"It ain't a problem unless you walk out of this room with plan of screwin' me over."

Face shook his head. "I've got no desire to burn you."

"Damn good thing."

"But if you mean for me to interpret that as a threat, you should be aware that I've still got a fair amount of influence in the world you operate in. And if it comes down to it, I have no problem seeing this whole fucking club go up in flames."

"Shame to waste such a terrifying threat," Alex answered, his voice dripping sarcasm. "But you may wanna ask yourself if I'm the one you should be warning. You got much bigger, scarier people than me to worry about. People with more influence and power then the two of us combined. And they ain't gonna give a fuck about your change of heart."

"That's why you're going to tell them that I'm dead," Face said coldly. "In case you haven't noticed, I do a little moonlighting as a soldier. And none of your contacts know my real name unless you told them. Which would be a direct violation of our original agreement. So the only people I really have to worry about are my own contacts. And they won't have any problem as long as they're still getting their drugs from you.

"You want to run off and play Boy Scout, be my guest. There's plenty more kids like you out there." Alex placed one hand on his chest. "Me personally, I got more than enough money and drugs to keep myself occupied. But the Chinese have this whole 'honor' thing."

Face could hear the sarcasm. He didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he simply took a step back, towards the door. "The Chinese are your problem, Alex. And you're right. You probably should think about reorganizing a bit to keep the operation from falling apart if one of your guys - or you - happens to go down."

"Don't worry about me. Good luck with your life on the straight and narrow. You're gonna need it."

It was as close to a friendly goodbye as either one of them were going to get.

**Near Fort Bragg, 1972**

Eight layers of clothing made the second day of their journey less dangerous than the first. But it only made it marginally less miserable. Starving and exhausted, they paused at an unplowed road, with only a few tire tracks. It was snowing hard, and while it didn't make their travel any more comfortable, it did hide their tracks - and their scent - from their pursuers.

"Follow the road?" Face pleaded.

Hannibal considered it carefully. He, too, had had enough of the branches and the thickets and the dormant wild rosebushes that tore at their clothes. He was cold, and weak from hunger, and it was unlikely that Lynch was still on their trail. They'd probably passed the county line several miles back, and it was getting dark. They needed to find another place to RON.

"Alright," he agreed.

It was two more hours before they came to a more travelled road. Though there were still no cars - this road had been plowed before, and the tracks were fresh enough to be visible in spite of the still-falling snow that covered over the road behind them. They unloaded and then hid the guns - strapped to their backs and under the jackets. It was uncomfortable as hell, but they had a much better chance of hitching a ride if they weren't carrying assault rifles. And they weren't about to leave them behind.

They headed west, and only got a few hundred yards before a passing truck pulled over to the side of the road. Out of the driver's seat stepped a man in a heavy black coat. "Hey, you fellas need a lift?" he called through the wall of snow that separated them.

"Go ahead, Face," Hannibal said quietly, weakly. He was too tired to put forth the effort himself, and Face could probably do a better job under the circumstances.

Slipping into his role, Face stepped forward, ahead of the rest of them. "Boy, do we ever," he called back. As he came close, he gestured back over his shoulder. "Our truck broke down. Off on a side road, way the hell back there. If you could just give us a lift into the next town, that'd be great."

"Next town's about five miles up," the driver answered, offering a hand as Face came close enough to shake it. In the dark, he was pretty sure the guy wouldn't get a good look at his face. "I'd be happy to give you a ride. It's damn cold out here."

"Yeah, it sure is. I'm Harry Reed. My Uncle Dale and friend Toby," he gestured. "You know of a hotel in that next town where we might be able to put up for the night?"


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**Vietnam, 1968**

"That place is better than a fuckin' five star hotel!"

Cruiser was more relaxed that he had been in weeks. The tension had been worked out of his muscles; he could feel it every time he moved. With a contented sigh, he relaxed into the passenger seat of the jeep.

"Well, now you know where it is," Face said simply.

Cruiser only smiled.

It wasn't far back to the base. There was only a short stretch through the rice paddies that might prove dangerous, and even so, it was not the kind of danger they really had to worry about - even at dusk. At least, not until the headlights started to dim. From the time they did, it took only a few hundred yards before the jeep stalled out, and suddenly they were pulled into the grass at the side of a muddy road, caught almost squarely between the club and Da Nang proper.

"Fuck, man," Cruiser groused as he sat up straight. "Nothing like a nice, sobering hike."

Face took a slow breath. "Yeah. And mechanics 101 was never my specialty."

Cruiser raised a brow. There was something very close to fear in the kid's voice. What the hell was that about?

He looked around, suddenly very aware of his surroundings as he got out of the jeep and checked the pistol hidden behind his back. Even if either one of them had a clue about mechanics, they still would've had to go to town for parts. But that wasn't what was causing that tension from Face. He still hadn't managed to pry his fingers off the steering wheel. It was that tension that was sobering Cruiser up in one quick hurry. He could almost feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

"We need to wait," Face said. He looked toward Cruiser, but in the dim light from the moon, his expression was hard to read. "We need to hide somewhere and wait. They'll know we're walking."

"They?" Cruiser's jaw set. "Exactly who are you expecting this time of night?"

Face didn't have a chance to answer. There were headlights in the rearview mirror. He spun, looked over his shoulder, and crawled across the passenger seat before falling out at Cruiser's feet. "Get _down_, damn it!"

Instinct made Cruiser crouch down behind the jeep before he even looked at the shape of the headlights. When he did, he felt like a fool. That vehicle was one of their own. It wasn't entirely clear if Face had even had a chance to notice that in his mad dash to get out of the driver's seat.

"What the fuck man?" He grabbed Face by the front of the shirt and pulled him up. He didn't have the time or the tolerance for this bullshit. "You better start talking quick."

"If they see us, we're dead," Face hissed back. His only calm was that well-practiced, forced calm of a soldier. Hidden very well underneath it, there was fear in his eyes.

Cruiser looked back. The jeep was approaching at a normal pace - not too fast, not too slow. Cruiser could hear the sounds of Motown blaring from the radio as the lights came closer. And the laughter of what could've easily been a half dozen drunks.

"Those are Americans, dumbass."

The Jeep was slowing. "That's one of ours," exclaimed a man with a southern drawl. He paused. "Bad place to break down. Think they walked?"

Cruiser let go of Face's shirt to grab his hair and jerk his head back so that he could see his pupils. "Are you fucking high?"

Face put both hands on Cruiser's shoulders and shoved him. "_Fuck _you! I've never been high in my fucking life!" His head was turned away before Cruiser could get a good look at his eyes.

Cruiser had had enough of this. No answers, Face acting paranoid as hell and with no explanation. Shoving him. Cruiser was not going to stand for that shit. His feet dug into the mud and he shoved Face back against the front tire of the jeep with an arm across his throat. "Talk, god damn it!"

"Hey, wait a minute. Wait, _quiet_!"

Suddenly, except for the rattle of the jeep engine, it was silent. The music was off, and the chatter had ceased. "Someone here?" a man called.

Face said nothing, just glared at Cruiser, and turned his head as the boots of a few men sloshed into the mud, piling out of the jeep. Face shut his eyes. Cruiser could feel the tension in his muscles. Everything about this was off. He didn't know anything about the guys in the jeep. At this point, the only thing he really knew was that Face wasn't going to shoot him. That being the case, Cruiser let his weight off of him.

The boots came around the front and the back, and as Cruiser looked up, he was staring down the barrel of an AK-47. The first thing he noticed was that it was _not _an M-16 - standard issue American assault rifle. The second thing he noticed was that it didn't lower out of his face when the man standing behind it - a hooded man who, based on his frame, was most likely an American - saw who and what he was looking at. In fact, his only reaction was to grip the weapon tighter.

"Call 'em!" he called toward the other jeep. "We've got him."

Hands behind him grabbed the back of Cruiser's collar at the same time that the narrow barrel of an identical AK pushed into his shoulder blade. "Get up. Over the hood."

At this range, that gun would blow his whole fucking arm off. He didn't dare argue. His glare went from Face to the gun to the man behind it and back to Face before he sat up a bit straighter. Instinct alone had him holding his hands up. His chest was tight. Whatever the reason was behind this he now knew two things: first, it wasn't good and secondly, Face was behind it.

He pushed himself to his feet and turned slowly to the hood of the jeep before leaning over it. Face was pulled to his feet in a similar fashion with a few words from the man behind him.

"You can leave him," one of the men said, nodding toward Cruiser. "Alex only said this one."

Cruiser's eyes narrowed at that. Whatever trouble Face had managed to find, these guys apparently meant business. And that meant Face was dead. If they left, there'd be no way for Cruiser to track them down. He wouldn't have any hope of getting Face help. But as long as that gun was in his back he couldn't do a goddamn thing.

Face's struggle was sudden, and stupidly risky. With an assault rifle in his ribs, he spun around, ducked away, and attacked. There was no telling what he was thinking, how far he intended to get. As it happened, he only had time to grab the barrel of the gun, just before it erupted into a string of echoing gunshot rounds. The remaining two men were out of the jeep in a flash.

Cruiser shoved himself off the jeep - back and to the side, away from barrel of the gun. He smashed the bottom of his boot into the side of the guy's knee behind him, then grabbed for the gun. His knee came across the side of the guy's face before the butt of a rifle suddenly slammed into his ribs. Then Cruiser was on the ground, a boot holding him there.

"Do it!" a gravel voice cut through the commotion.

Cruiser stopped struggling to get back up. There was something dead cold about that voice. A second later he, was jerked up to his feet again and shoved back onto the jeep. A low voice in his ear whispered, "You try anything and I'll kill you one limb at a time," and a chill ran down Cruiser's spine as his jaw clenched shut.

The man stepped away further towards the group. How many were there, anyway?

"Take him too. He just bought a bullet."

There were headlights on the road again. This time, they weren't from a jeep. With the barrel of an AK pressed to the base of his skull and another man in front of him with a pistol to his forehead, Cruiser wasn't going to try anything again. If he did, he wouldn't make it very far. Not when he was the sole focus of two men with guns to his head. His hands were up, and they didn't tie them. As the headlights came closer - they belonged to a truck - they moved with him slowly.

The truck stopped, and the men moved to either side of him and back a little, still equally prepared and capable of blowing his head off right then and there. "Get in the back."

Hands on his shirt shoved him forward hard enough to make him stumble. He caught himself with a hand on the ground and bit back a remark as he came upright again, keeping his hands up at his sides. A last glance around had his mind racing. What were the chances that someone stumbled onto the jeep and figured out that something had gone wrong? Hannibal wouldn't even be missing them for another couple days. They were in the middle of nowhere. Three days from now someone would go into town and figure out that they'd left the club and never made it back to town. And that was it.

He'd come here to die in a shallow grave, but this had not factored into it.

With a glare at Face, Cruiser sat down next to him on the crates in the back of the truck. Two hooded men climbed into the back with them, AKs steady and aimed right at them. Some conversation outside of the truck - the hood of their jeep was opened, and a toolbox retrieved. Cruiser could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation. The two men who'd arrived in the truck would take _both _jeeps back to base. In the meantime, the other two from the original pack got in the front, did a U-turn, and started away from Da Nang.

So much for somebody finding the jeep.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**Vietnam, 1968**

"Did they find your backup weapon?" Face whispered. His head was lowered, mouth covered and turned away from the two guards.

"No."

Face let out a sigh that sounded almost like relief, and shut his eyes as he put his head back against the window behind him. Cruiser bowed his head, his brow furrowing.

"I just got a death warrant signed on my ass." He paused to reign in that anger so he could keep his voice low. "Why?"

"Because I just cut contact with my supplier. And I didn't think he could pull guys together enough to move this fast, or I would've done it differently. Or at least waited until you weren't there."

Cruiser wasn't sure if he would have rather Face had said something that made him entirely not worth this trouble. If that had been the case, Cruiser would've just found a way out of this and left his ass to deal with his own goddamn problem. But cutting his ties with everything that brought him to this point in the first place was the one thing Cruiser hadn't expected to hear. And for some reason unbeknownst to Cruiser, it had just bought his loyalty.

He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?" He almost laughed.

"I knew he'd try it," Face said. "I just didn't think he'd be able to move this fast."

Cruiser sat back up, his voice still low. "The thought ever knock around that head of yours to ask for help?"

"No," Face answered simply. He turned his head slightly and caught Cruiser's eye. "Because until you struggled for that gun, they would've had no interest in you. It was my decision straight from the beginning, and I know the chances are pretty good I'll die for it. But I didn't want you or anyone else being a part of that."

Cruiser's gaze locked on him hard. "Hannibal made that decision for you when he put you on the team. We're involved whether you wanted it or not."

"Hannibal's not going to die tonight. You and I probably are."

Cruiser shook his head. What the hell didn't this kid understand about this? "And who do you think is gonna come looking to track us down? How well do you think that's going to be received?"

"Doesn't matter if we're dead."

"It does for them."

Face glanced away again. "Well, if he does come looking, he'll get a nice confirmation on what he already knows about me. Not that he'll ever find the body to prove it. Can't say what he'll think about you."

"You really think he's not going to track these fuckers down?"

"Hey!" the guard yelled, raising his rifle slightly. "Enough. Shut it."

The order was simple. The gun pointed at Cruiser's forehead was even more so. Cruiser leaned back, his jaw clamped shut. He was pissed as hell that he was stuck there with some jackass that couldn't figure out this could have all been avoided. Maybe even more irritating was the full and complete knowledge that he was about to die at Face's side.

**North Carolina, January 1972**

Warmth. Electricity. Hot shower. Hannibal stripped off layer after layer of damp clothing, dropping it on the bed. Face, once again shivering violently from the cold, was in the shower first. BA was sitting on the floor next to the heater, his head against the wall. He looked like he could be asleep already. Hannibal watched him for a moment, then turned his attention to the M-16 on the bed, reloading it carefully.

"BA, you should get out of those wet clothes," he directed. "You'll warm up faster."

BA slurred something back, something unintelligible, but opened his eyes to watch Hannibal. "What'd that dude say this town was called?"

"I don't think he said," Hannibal answered, sitting down on the bed and pulling the gun into his lap. He glanced at the phone. "But it's a 919 area code. So we're probably closer to Raleigh than Fayetteville."

"Nnnh." BA shut his eyes again. "You think Lynch is gonna follow us out here?"

"I think Lynch is going to follow us to the ends of the earth," Hannibal answered. "But I don't intend to be there when he shows up."

"What's that about Lynch?" Face asked, stepping out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. His chest and arms and face were all beet red.

"Go take a shower, Sergeant," Hannibal ordered. "Food should be here by the time you're done."

Reluctantly, BA dragged himself to his feet and headed to the bathroom. Face sat down next to Hannibal and grabbed the wallet off the bed. "I called for a few pizzas," Hannibal informed him. "They should be here any minute."

"Ah, good. I'm starving." He thumbed through the contents of the wallet. Forty dollars left, now that they'd paid for the room. They'd have to pay for the pizza, and whatever was left, they would have to get them through the next day. "We don't have a lot of cash," he sighed.

"There's another wallet over there." Hannibal nodded toward the dresser. "From one of the MPs."

Face stood, and retrieved it. Another thirty dollars. "Well, it'll get us gas if we can find a car."

"That's your department, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, I figured." He picked up his M-16, and the pistol, and took both with him to the heater, plopping down less-than-gracefully in front of it. "I am so damn tired," he slurred.

"Would you rather sleep than eat?"

Face smiled weakly. "Hard choice."

Hannibal pulled back on the gun, loading the first round into the chamber. "We're going to have to sleep in shifts for the next few nights at least," he said. "Until we get to a more crowded city."

"Like Raleigh?"  
>"No, like New York." Hannibal glanced up. "We're still not in the clear, Face."<p>

"I know that," Face sighed, letting his eyes slide closed.

"If you want to sleep now," Hannibal suggested, "I'll take the first shift. You can take the second."

"How many hours?"

"I figure three. That's a whole sleep cycle."

"Fine by me," Face managed. He finished loading his weapons, then dragged himself to his feet, heading for one of the two beds. "And if we make it all the way to New York, I know of a great little restaurant in Queens."

Hannibal smiled as he watched the younger man out of the corner of his eye. Face set the rifle next to the bed, slid the pistol under his pillow, and fell facedown. In less than a minute, he was snoring softly.

**Vietnam, 1968**

They didn't want to have to move the bodies. Or explain them. They didn't ever want them found. It made sense. Face had said himself, soldiers died out here and no one asked questions. The only reason anybody would have a clue of who to look at for an explanation on what happened to them was if the bodies were found and it didn't look like a simple act of VC violence.

It would've been just as easy to make it look like that. These same men with these same weapons could've simply shot up their jeep while driving by it rather than disconnecting the alternator. But that was a little too public on a well-travelled road, a little too close to an American base and a club that Alex wanted not to draw attention to. Face had no doubt that he was the one behind this. In a way, he'd been expecting it when the man simply smiled and let him walk away. He just hadn't quite been expecting it so quickly.

Face watched their surroundings as they drove in the opposite direction from Da Nang. stopped as the truck pulled off the road and came to a stop just before the dense tree line. The AK-47s that had been pointed at them the entire time were now raised slightly. "Out! Move!"

He exchanged glances with Cruiser, then looked at the guards who were rising to their feet. Very slowly, Face rose to his feet as Cruiser leaned forward for leverage to do the same. When the guards had to look down to find the edge of the truck, it was the first and only opportunity Face expected to have. He moved, quick and smooth, grabbing the pistol from his belt and dropping forward into a roll before the first shots rang out. Two guards who were closest first - anything he could hit to make them fall off the back of the truck in pain. Count the bullets - one in each of their foreheads. One more to the man on the right side of the truck.

AK bullets rattling and pinging into the truck, splintering the wooden sides. Through the metal and into his leg. Face grit his teeth at the pain, but didn't stop to think about it. Aim, fire. Miss. Running out of bullets. At any second, just one of those bullets would end his life. He was expecting it. Last shot. He didn't look to see if it landed. Drop the pistol, grab the backup off his calf. More pain - or was it just because he was moving? - in his leg. He could feel the blood flowing, hot and sticky. Two more bullets, last man down. Then silence.

He lay still, breathing heavily, carefully watching the bodies on the ground for any signs of movement. "Cruiser?"

It took a minute for Cruiser to answer. "I'm gonna kill you myself for this."

Face glanced at him just long enough to check how much blood there was, then his eyes were immediately back on the men who were still unmoving on the ground. Some rustling, a gasp that released into a hiss, and then footsteps. A moment later Cruiser rounded the front of the truck, gun in hand. There was blood running down the side of his fatigues where his hand was clutching.

"You hit?" he asked.

Lying flat in the back of the truck, Face finally let his concentration on the two men waver enough to glance at Cruiser and nod. "Yeah." He grit his teeth as the attempt to move his leg shot excruciating pain through his entire body. "And unless you're prepared to do field surgery, I'm probably going to need a hospital."


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**1972**

Just after dawn, at the end of BA's three hour shift, Face had walked to the gas station next door for coffee. He'd returned three hours later with coffee... and keys. "Man, how'd you manage to con some dude out of his car?"

Face smirked. "You know, if I didn't know better," he set the keys on the dresser, "I'd say you were a bit ungrateful."

BA glared at him, but at the same time, he felt relieved that they wouldn't have to endure another day of walking through the snow.

Face shook the bed at Hannibal's feet. "Hey, Colonel. Sun's up."

Hannibal sat up abruptly, startled, and blinked at the cup of coffee Face held out in his direction. "Good morning," Face smiled.

"Morning," Hannibal slurred back, rubbing his eyes. With both hands and a shaky grip, he took the coffee. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine," Face answered, reaching into his pocket and producing two cigars.

Hannibal blinked, confused. "Why'd you let me sleep so long?" he asked. It took him a moment to realize what Face was offering him, and he managed a smile as he took them from his hand. "Thanks, kid."

"You were tired, man," BA answered him. "Figured we'd let you sleep."

As Hannibal slowly woke up, Face slipped into the bathroom. "I got us a car," he called out into the room as the water ran in the sink.

"Did you steal it?" Hannibal asked, sipping his coffee.

Face laughed as he stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. "What kind of a question is that?" He tossed the towel back into the bathroom.

Hannibal glanced up as Face pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "A logical one. And one we should know the answer to before we get pulled over."

"Nah, it's legal," Face answered. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack and set it between his lips. "For the moment, anyways."

"What do you mean, for the moment?"

Face flicked his lighter, then tossed it to Hannibal once the cigarette was lit. "I bought it," he explained. "On behalf of our lawyer friend."

BA's eyes widened. "You did what?"

Face shrugged, and leaned back on the dresser. "There's a used car dealership just up the road," he explained. "I figured if the guy was a lawyer, he probably had decent credit."

Hannibal bit the end of one of the cigars, and sat back against the headboard as he lit it. "Okay, kid, I'm curious." He dropped the lighter on the bed and the unlit cigar into his pocket before looking back up at Face. "How did you pass yourself off as a dark-haired, 5'6 lawyer? Which is what I'm sure was on his driver's license."

"People don't ever look at height and weight on a driver's license," Face grinned. "They look at picture and name. So I put my picture with his name."

"Where'd you get your picture?"

"At the post office." Face smiled, and took a quick hit off of his cigarette. "Passport photo. Only takes a few minutes."

"Right." Hannibal took one last sip of the coffee, then set it on the bedside table as set the cigar between his teeth and he rose to his feet. "I don't know why I ever would've considered that you didn't know how to make a fake ID."

Face pulled the license from his pocket and studied it. "Well, it wouldn't pass a cop," he granted. "I mean, all I had was a pocketknife and some superglue to put the thing together, and I was lucky to find that."

Hannibal took the ID as he passed, pausing to look at it, and shook his head slightly as he handed it back. "You're magic, kid," he determined, handing it back. "Pack it up. Let's get out of here."

**Vietnam, 1968**

Hannibal had gotten the call at 2300. His men were in the hospital with multiple bullet wounds - none of them life threatening - and they weren't talking. That sure hadn't taken long.

He was in a chopper and on his way to Da Nang in a matter of minutes - just as soon as he could secure one. They weren't even allowed to give the two of them morphine without him present, due to their security clearance. They'd keep them alive, but "comfortable" was another story altogether.

It was pretty clear, as he approached the side-by-side beds, surrounded by hanging curtains, that they'd gotten their hands on the morphine anyways. How, why, and who'd given it to them was irrelevant. Hell, Cruiser carried the stuff on him most of the time. Hannibal didn't really care about the morphine. He cared much more for an explanation. And he stood still between the two beds, arms crossed, and not saying a word, just waiting to hear it.

Face had opened his eyes as soon as he heard the curtain pull back. But he didn't speak. He just watched. Whatever injuries he had were covered by the thin sheet over him. Which probably meant he wouldn't be walking anytime real soon. He held Hannibal's gaze for a long moment, then looked away. He wasn't offering to start this conversation.

Hannibal looked to Cruiser. He was propped up against some pillows, pulling back the side of the gauze that was on his side to inspect the job they'd done with stitching him up. After a long moment of this, he glanced up, then away.

The silent stares that greeted him were telling and of themselves. Whatever trouble these two had gotten into was serious enough that they weren't talking. Not even to him. He wasn't surprised by that in Peck's case; he had only been with him nine days. Hannibal wasn't even sure if he could trust him yet. But Cruiser's silence, that was something else all together. However bad the situation was, Cruiser wouldn't be keeping silent for his own sake.

"I'm waiting for your report, gentlemen," Hannibal said flatly.

His expression was unreadable but his tone was clear. They were under his command. He was responsible for them, and he would have the truth of just what had happened. Finally, Face took a deep, slow breath, and looked up, meeting his gaze.

"You want it here or someplace a little more secure?"

Hannibal glanced around, determined that there was no one within earshot, and looked back at Face again. "Right here is just fine."

Cruiser glanced from one to the other and went back to inspecting his stomach, poking around it a bit as Face took a deep breath. "Going north on Route 7, probably about ten miles past where the city ends, you're going to find the bodies of four American soldiers, if you want to send someone to go pick them up."

Hannibal blinked in surprise. Whatever he'd been expecting to hear, that sure as hell wasn't it.

"If they do an investigation, they'll find out that the bullets that killed them came from my gun."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. Even shot and on morphine, the kid was careful with his words. "Shot with my gun" wasn't the same as "I killed them all." He waited a moment to hear the rest of the story. Just that fact that Cruiser hadn't killed Peck meant there was a damn good reason for those men to be dead.

"There's a man at the DMZ Club - you'll run right into it on the way back into town - named Brian Alex. He's going to want to know that those four men are dead. He's a Sergeant Major. I don't know his unit; I never asked. He brings drugs - mostly heroin - into Da Nang for dispersion."

Drugs. That was what it all came back to. Hannibal was no babe in the woods. He knew how many soldiers were using and he knew how many were lured into the drug trade. The fact that they were in a hell hole made the appeal of escape and profit all that much stronger. Hannibal also knew that Peck had been up to his neck in the trade. Hell, he had a signed confession to the effect. Peck had volunteered that information in his confession, so that part was certainly not a surprise.

The kid sighed, and put his head back. His tone was completely resigned and relaxed. It was hard to tell how much of that was the morphine, and how much was the sound of a boy who had no hope or expectations of his life, or anyone in it.

"If you're going to burn him," Face continued, "I suggest you do it quietly because you won't get anyone to testify against him in a court martial. If you're not going to burn him, he's going to keep coming after me until I'm dead. Which will be sooner than later if you go the route of that investigation I mentioned."

"So you knew about this threat that was going to come back on you and you saw no reason to mention it?"

Face looked up at him, expression serious. "It wasn't a threat until tonight. And I didn't think he'd move this fast."

"Bullshit," Cruiser snapped. "It was a threat the whole goddamn time and you knew it."

Face's jaw clamped shut, and he looked away, not answering.

"I almost took a bullet to -"

"Secure that, Sergeant," Hannibal interrupted.

Cruiser's glare turned to Hannibal for a moment, but he fell silent. After a brief pause, Hannibal looked back at Face. "You can't have it both ways, kid. Either he wasn't a threat or he was a threat that moved quicker than you thought. In either case, I don't take threats to my team lightly. I knew bringing you on this team was a risk. But it's been two drops and you're in the hospital for something that happened on fucking stand down. So I need you to tell me. Is it that you have complete disregard for your lie and the lives of the people on this team or do you just not understand how this team functions?"

Face turned and looked at him. "You know what? Fuck you. He wasn't a threat until I told him I wasn't working for him anymore." He glanced at Cruiser, his voice dripping sarcasm as he continued. "And my _sincerest_ apologies that you got caught in the middle of it. 'Cause it wasn't your problem." He looked back at Hannibal. "And it's not yours. _My _decision, _my_ consequences, and none of it really fucking matters anyways."

"See, that's where you're wrong," Hannibal cut him off. "This is my problem. Half my damn team is in the hospital. How am I supposed to explain that?"

Cruiser's anger was much less even. "You're a fuckin' son of a bitch, you know that? I couldn't give a fuck about getting shot! I expect it every goddamn day I'm out here. What pisses me the hell off is you can't get it through that head of yours that you made this everyone's problem the day you signed on to the god damn team! And you don't even give us all the fuckin' pieces to work with!"

By the time he was done, Cruiser was almost at a full yell and ready to come off the bed. Face met that aggression with a yell of his own. "I didn't fucking risk my team! I risked my _own _neck because I signed off on a goddamn confession and told you," he pointed at Hannibal, "that I was done with that shit! You think I didn't _know _it could fucking kill me when I signed it? Or that I think you didn't know that? What the hell do you want from me!"

"I want you to get the goddamn chip off your shoulder," Hannibal said firmly. "It's not you against the world. Every member of this team would take a bullet for the other. That's how we function. I was willing to bring you on knowing you could be a target, but there's not a damn thing anyone of us can do if you're not going to trust us."

Face looked at him coldly. "Look. I signed on the dotted line. I knew what I was doing, and I don't regret it. As far as I'm concerned, I owe you, and this team, my freedom and, hell, my life. So whatever you want me to do, tell me and I will do it. Whatever you want me to say, I will say it. So what is it you want to hear, Hannibal? Because I can't imagine you'd be any more happy if I was sitting here telling you I got shot on a deal that went bad - even if the rest of my team was _never_ at risk when it happened."

Hannibal had his answer. For a long moment, he just stood still, staring at Face. The kid didn't have a damn clue what being on a team really meant. "You know what I want?" he said, baiting him. "I want the name of every contact in the operation. Then we'll make sure that they are removed as threats."

"The hell you will. The operation is fucking huge. You won't shut it down."

"We'll see about that."

Hannibal turned to walk away, but paused at the curtain and looked back. "You're right, you know," he finally offered. "I wouldn't be any happier hearing you got shot without the others being at risk. Because it would still mean a member of this team got shot. You need to think about that good and hard."

He turned away again and headed out past the curtain. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon for those names, Sergeant."

Behind him, there was no response from either of the two injured men. Hannibal was glad for that. He had one hell of a mess to clean up.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**New York City, 1972**

They'd left the "borrowed" car on the street in Manhattan three days ago. They hadn't been back to it since. Face had somehow managed to get them a room in Flushing, Queens, through the end of the week. Neither BA nor Hannibal knew or cared to know how he'd pulled it off with only fifteen dollars to his name. They'd used that fifteen dollars since then to buy bread, peanut butter, and jelly. They'd eaten nothing else for three days, and BA was beginning to crave hot food in a way he'd never done before. Even in Vietnam, with C-rations and fire-cooked meals, he'd never craved his mother's cooking quite as badly as he did right now.

"So what do we do now, Hannibal?" Face asked, lying on his back on the motel room bed, arms under his head. BA glanced at him, then closed his eyes again, leaning on the side of the chair he'd pulled to the window so that he could look out onto the walkway. "Are we just going to hang out in New York for the rest of our lives eating peanut butter and jelly?"

BA scowled at the idea. "Man, you can eat mine too. I'm sick of peanut butter and jelly!"

"I don't know," Hannibal admitted, sitting on the edge of the second bed and cleaning his rifle. "We probably have a better chance of evading capture if we split up."

Again, BA frowned. "Split up?" he repeated.

Hannibal glanced up. "By now, the Army probably has every available MP this side of the Mississippi on alert." He lowered his eyes again. "They'll notify the local authorities, too. The three of us together will stand out in a crowd more than any one of us alone."

He was right, but BA didn't like it.

"Where are we supposed to go?" Face asked quietly, still staring at the ceiling.

"I don't know." Hannibal was silent for a moment. "You said something about Las Vegas once. It's as good a place as any to get lost."

Face gave a quiet snort of laughter and turned his head to look at Hannibal. "Where will you go?"

BA didn't hear his answer. As he turned and looked back out the window, he found himself lost in his own thoughts. He knew he could always go back home. He'd be welcomed with open arms in his mother's house. But it would also put her in danger. It would probably be the first place the police would look for him. He couldn't do that. He wasn't sure where he would go.

"BA?"

He glanced at Hannibal, startled out of his trance. "Huh?"

"Did you hear me?"

"No. What?"

"I asked if you knew anyone that could loan you some money," Hannibal repeated. "So that you could get on your feet. Here or somewhere else."

"Oh." Momma would do that. And it wouldn't put her in near as much danger as if he showed up on her doorstep. "Yeah, prob'ly."

"Face?"

Face shrugged. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

The silence that fell on the room was eerie. After several long moments, Face stood up. The bed creaked as his weight shifted off of it, and he headed for the door, stepping quietly into the ice-cold night outside.

**Vietnam, 1968**

"You're sure about this?"

Face's jaw was tight, eyes fixed on a spot on the corner of the desk. With Hannibal a half step behind him and General Westman on the other side of the desk, he was the center of attention.

"I'm not sure about anything, sir," Face said flatly. "But those are the men I recall doing business with."

"You understand that these allegations are very serious?"

"I do." Face looked up, eyes ice cold as they locked on Westman's. "I also hope you understand that I wouldn't be making any allegations at all if my CO hadn't dragged me here over some bullshit about being accountable for the group and shared responsibility. Sir."

Westman stared at him for a moment, then looked past him at Hannibal. Whatever passed in that stare, Face didn't really give a damn. But Hannibal's patronizing voice made every muscle in Face's body tense up. "We're learning to be part of a team."

_Fuck you!_ Face wanted to scream at him. Instead, he clenched his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack.

"Alright, then," Westman said, dropping the list of names onto his desk. "I'll be looking into it."

"Thank you, General," Hannibal said.

Face followed his lead - salute, turn, and leave - but stopped in the hallway. "I don't think you have any idea what I just did," he said coldly.

Hannibal turned and glanced back. "I know that your reputation is shot to hell, if that's what you're worried about."

Face could feel the anger tightening in his chest. "Well, if that was your goal, you did accomplish that," he growled.

Hannibal paused for a moment, then turned and crossed back to him, stopping so close he was clearly violating Face's personal space. "You know what my goal is, Sergeant?"

"Enlighten me," Face snarled back.

"It's my goal to break you down into nothing. And then put the pieces back together again in the right order. Kind of like they did in basic, only better. Because they did you a big disservice in not teaching you what it means to be part of a team. And until you understand that, you're useless to me."

Face's eyes were narrowed into slits. He wanted to swing on this man standing in front of him. But in this public place, and with such a difference in rank, he didn't dare. "Well, congratulations. Now I'm useless to everyone else, too."

"That's the idea."

Face growled audibly as Hannibal took a step back, his authoritative tone turning more casual.

"You know, kid, there's a reason why you're here. There's a reason why I fought to get you on my team. And in case you haven't figured it out, it's because you're different. You have your own set of rules, your own moral code, but you do what you believe is right. The army frowns upon that."

"So I've noticed," Face snapped. What the hell was his point?

"Well, I don't."

Hannibal held his gaze steadily, saying nothing for a long moment as Face absorbed those words.

"And my moral code says that once you're a part of this team, I don't give a damn what you do, who you are, where you go, I've got your back. Anywhere, anytime. And you _will _give me the same."

Face stared back at him, smiling wickedly. "We'll see about that."

**1972**

"You okay, kid?"

Huddled on the curb, holding his head up with one hand and a cigarette with the other, Face didn't even glance up. "I'm fine."

Hannibal sat down next to him, wishing for a cigar. As if reading his mind, Face suddenly produced one from his breast pocket. Hannibal laughed. "You're kidding me."

But as he took it, he realized that it was very much real. It was also Cuban. With a slight smirk, Face handed him a lighter. "Happy birthday. Since I won't be around to see it."

Hannibal chuckled again and shook his head slightly before biting off the end of the cigar and lighting it. "You know, it's going to be strange not having you around, Lieutenant."

Face glanced up, but kept his head turned away, staring out across the dark and dirty city. "You'll get used to it."

Hannibal could tell - from his tone, from his body language, from the way he hesitated - that their plan to split up was not sitting well with Face. Hannibal reconsidered it carefully, and lowered his head. "Do you think it's worth it?" he finally asked.

"What?"

"Splitting up?"

Face didn't answer.

"There's advantages and disadvantages," Hannibal continued when he received no response. "On one level, it's safer."

Face chuckled, but it was without humor. "Only one?" He glanced over, and the two of them locked eyes briefly. "I think you need to recount, Colonel. On all levels, it's safer." Face looked away again, and dragged on his cigarette. "Lynch can't be three places at once. If he does catch up with one of us, the other two will have fair warning. Not to mention..." He trailed off.

"So is it worth it?" Hannibal asked after a long silence.

Face laughed again, and cast a sidelong glance at the man sitting beside him. "Are you worried about me?"

"Maybe."

Face looked away again, lowering his head. "Don't be," he said quietly. "I can take care of myself."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

Face took another long drag on his cigarette, staring blankly down at the asphalt under his feet. The silence was long and uneasy. Face had plenty of time to finish his cigarette and chain to another one. He was halfway through with it before he spoke again. "Hey, Hannibal?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"You remember what you said about... what might happen? When I came back to the States?" He paused for a long moment, taking another nervous drag. "About... you know... if I can't control the anger, the kill instinct..."

Hannibal sighed. "You'll control it, kid."

Face ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, shifting uneasily. "Well, if I can't..." Finally, he turned his head and stared at his CO. "You're probably the only one out there who'd be able to track me down and put a bullet in my head. To stop me."

Hannibal stared back at him, his gaze dead serious. Finally, he nodded slowly. "That goes both ways, Lieutenant," he whispered back.

Face nodded back, and extended a hand. As Hannibal grasped it, he pulled the younger man closer, into an embrace. To his surprise, Face clung to him. Then, with a shudder that might have been a quiet sob, he pulled away abruptly and stood to his feet. He disappeared back into the hotel room, leaving the half-finished cigarette on the curb.

That night, Hannibal and BA each took six hour shifts. When Hannibal awoke the next morning, Face was gone. By the time the sun went down the next evening, so was BA.

It felt like an ending.


	20. Eulogy

**Eulogy**

Face had never taken a road trip before. He'd never really thought about what it would be like to drive from one end of the country to the other. It gave him a lot of time to think. Too much time, really. New York City to Las Vegas was one hell of a long trip.

Two weeks since they had escaped from Fort Bragg. Two days since the decision that splitting up would be the safer way to go. Hannibal's decision - not Face's. But he was probably right. They were fugitives now, and they would be harder to track down in three different parts of the country.

Face had left Hannibal and BA in the motel without so much as a goodbye. They would be okay. At least, Face hoped they'd be okay. BA had family in Chicago, and probably down in Georgia, too. Hannibal had no one that Face know of. Five years of living with him in close quarters and Face had never heard him say word one about his family. It never occurred to him to ask. But even if he was completely alone now, Face was sure he'd get along just fine. He'd never been the type to need people.

Funny to think he had actually been worried about Face.

The sun set a couple of hours ago. Face had at least another four or five before it even thought about coming up again. It would be a slow sunrise - not like in Vietnam. In 'Nam, it went from night to day in a matter of minutes. It would catch you off guard if you weren't careful. It was a good way to get shot - not paying attention.

He couldn't think about that now.

The gas tank was almost empty. He'd have to pull off soon and find a gas station. Easier said than done out here. All he saw in front of him was road, disappearing into blackness where the headlights couldn't reach. The occasional semi truck coming the other way was blinding. On either side of him it was black. Little specks in the distance - stars - were the only light. No moon. More stars than he had ever thought possible, though. He couldn't see the stars, growing up in LA. And he couldn't see them through three tiers of jungle, either.

He couldn't think about that right now.

There was nothing to see out here. No gas station, either. He wondered if he'd make it to the next one. If not, it would be a long walk. Hopefully he'd make it back to the car before the police do. If anyone happened to run the plates on the car he was driving, they would find out it wasn't his. Oh well. He'd deal with that when the time came.

Road sign up ahead. Airport nearby. He could see the runway lights up ahead, and the beacons. He wondered where Murdock was right now. No, he knew where he was. At least, he had a pretty good idea. It didn't matter. He didn't want to know. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about it and besides, he couldn't think about that right now.

This was a new life. This road trip began a new life. He hadn't quite decided yet what that life was going to look like, but he knew what it was not going to look like. It was not going to be anything like the life he'd left behind - either of them. The orphaned child - starved for affection and approval, desperate for attention - had died years ago. The soldier had found his end in the killing fields.

Face had always been good at cutting things off. Starting over again. It was a simple fact of life that nothing lasted forever. Survival was by choice, not by chance. What needed to happen, he would make happen. Right now, he needed a new start. And he would find it.

There was a line of orange lights on the horizon. Must be a city up there. He hadn't been paying enough attention to know what city it would be. Hell, he didn't even know what state he was in anymore. He must have fallen asleep about fifty miles back or so. Lost track of where he was. Maybe it was further back than that. It was hard to tell. He'd been driving for over twenty-four hours now.

He wondered if BA ever made it to Chicago.

He couldn't think about that. That was a former life. He would shed no tears if the memories died with it. He'd run to the Army looking for a lot of things - stability, family, loyalty, pride. Some he'd found and some he hadn't. When it came down to those last few moments - betrayed and handcuffed, rejected and told to find his own way - there was really nothing worth retaining. He was past the point of caring about any of it. A former life, better off forgotten.

Las Vegas, Nevada - city of sin, and his own personal city of opportunity. He knew how to play that game. Sin was one thing he'd always been really good at. Lying. Manipulation. Getting what he wanted. He was pretty good at poker too. He'd have to see how that played out. One way or another it was a very anonymous place. A good place to start over, to become someone new.

He was going to stop smoking. He'd decided that. Maybe he'd switch to those god awful cigars Hannibal had. Sort of a memento to him. But not really. That was another life. He didn't even remember it anymore. He was someone else completely, then. He wasn't really sure exactly who he was now, but he'd figure it out. Mostly it would depend on what Vegas had to offer him. And what she wants from him. There were advantages to being able to fit in anywhere. If she was kind to him, he would be kind to her.

He knew one thing for damn sure. He wanted a nice car. This piece of shit he was driving right now wasn't going to work for him. When he was situated, he didn't care where he lived, or what kind of furniture he had. But he wanted a nice car. Maybe a bright red 53 Cadillac convertible.

No, he couldn't think about that either.

The sun was coming up. Had it really been another four hours? He wondered how many miles he had left to go. He should probably check. He must have filled the gas tank somewhere back there while he was asleep. He couldn't imagine he would've gone so far on an empty tank.

Everything was a blur. Past, present, and future. Memories and plans mixed and mingled in the exhaustion of not having slept in a very long time. He would get to where he was going. And after this night was over, he would wake up someone completely and totally different. After this night, he would face the world as a new person.

Tonight, he gave his formal eulogy.

**NEXT BOOK: What Happens in Vegas.**

**Thanks for reading!**


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